Too Have Fallen
by LttleSparrow
Summary: When all he believes in crumbles at his feet, Harry must find himself anew between warring Dark and Light Lords, ancient magic, and an unavoidable fate. Eventual HP/LV, AU from OotP.
1. Sitting Atop His Tower he laid Scheming

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**AN: **This will be slash (man/man, yaoi, or whatever you wish to call it) between Harry and Voldemort. The pairing is not up to debate and if you are against such things, do not read this story. Fair warning, I don't want to hear any QQ later about not knowing about the man love.

**.**

**Too Have Fallen**

**PROLOUGE: **

**Sitting Atop His Tower He Laid Scheming.**

_I once knew a man who believed in too little and knew too much…_

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(Hogwarts Headmaster's Office Date: 1979)

The many decades that he had seen were starting to take their toll on his mind and body. Memories of brighter, better times were starting to blur, the young faces of his past were now cragged and ancient, and the vast quantities of knowledge that he acquired over his long life, now out-dated and lost.

His body was no longer the agile, lithesome one of his youth, and his mind, though still sharp, had the habit of slipping into the mistakes of his past on the slightest whim. He had to rely on his Occlumency shields and lemon drops far too often these days, and this thrice be damned war was not helping.

Yes, this war that he had seen coming many decades ago when he looked upon the jaded face of the young Tom Riddle. If only he knew then what he did today.

He should have struck the darkened child down when he had the chance. Instead his foolish past self still believed in second chances; his mind still captured in his days with Gellert. Too fresh from grief and disappointment, he did not want to see what was so clearly in front of him: a bloodthirsty wolf amongst his innocent flock of sheep, a dark harbinger come to cull his peace.

No, he foolishly let the darkness flourish within the dangerous child, and look where that got him - the second coming of a genius Dark Lord at his doorstep, and one of his own making.

Even with the creation of the Order of the Phoenix, it was still not enough to stop the rampant chaos and growth of the Dark that threatened his handspun kingdom.

He had spent many years toiling with lesser wizards to get where he was today. A perfect position to make the utopian kingdom he and Gellert dreamed of many years ago. As supreme Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot he could decide what laws came to pass in this world.

As Headmaster he decreed what the future generations of wizards were taught, and thus changing society as a whole through its youngest members.

As Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederationof Wizards, he oversaw what other wizarding countries accomplished in their everyday lives, and could head off any questionable influences they wished to bring into his lands.

He had been offered Minister of Magic many a time, although he was flattered and smug about his people's apparent need for him and his guidance, the Minister of Magic was too much of a closely watched position. The Ministry was too riddled with darkness, corruption, and followers of the Old Ways. He would have to fight too many powerful and influential purebloods to make the position worthwhile.

No, here atop his grand tower of ancient stone and colored glass he laid scheming.

Here he could see the entire black and white checkered broad, move all his pristine white pieces into place, subtly manipulate the innocent minds of the future, and collect any new prospective pawns and valuable information. All without anyone ever being the wiser. His loony, omnipresent grandfather act kept everyone guessing and believing his every colorful, cryptic word.

Here he could see his careful gardening take root in the world, and bud into his pure kingdom. He would weed out the undesirable bramble and thorns that choked his world and plant only the purest of flowers in their place. His kingdom would be free of the treacherous Old Ways that lost him his life and love, and from the ashes would rise utopia.

He had vowed upon the death of Gellert to make this dream reality, by whatever means and whatever cost - be it life or limb, magic or blood.(1)

But now this grievous upstart dared to tread upon his holy land, bringing the darkening taint with him, the undesirable filth that he had spent many years ostracizing to the outskirts of society.

Yes, Albus knew many of the ancient pureblood houses still clung to the Old Ways of rituals and blessings, but they dare not practice them as openly as they once had. Gellert and his reign of terror had seen to that. Society as a whole now saw these Old Ways as dark and would have nothing of them; just like he had whispered so wisely into their ears.

But now, despite his best efforts, the Dark was making a foothold within his garden. He was becoming too old and weary to keep up this ongoing fight on the frontlines all on his own. He would need new blood - infused with his own ideals and teachings - young and strong to carry on the fight so he could slip into the background and work the strings.

But how to get this prefect puppet, this future leader of this light kingdom, the flame to flush out the shadows that darkened his world, and, when the time came, to take over as the shepherd of this people?

He would have to start from scratch; before their very first breath they would be clay in his hands, a weapon of his own making.

Forged from hardship early in their years to insure loyalty to their marker, born from the fires of strife only the bigoted could bestow to make a strong but naïve blade, and hidden away so no one could steal it before it was ready. He would make a weapon of the Light so that no Darkness would ever befall his glorious kingdom, so that he could finally lay himself to rest alongside Gellert knowing he had did away with that which destroyed a great man.

But how to set the ball into motion, and from whom did he procure his protégé from?

Countless ideas swarmed the man's aged mind as he systematically went about his various options. Did he dare use a dark child to assume an ultimate victory over the Dark, or go the easy way with a child of one of his followers?

How to get the child away from their parents and into an environment of his own choosing? What did Albus do with the parents after he had already taken the child; did he dare allow them to live? Could they be spared with an obliviate?

"No," the gray-haired professor softly muttered, so deep in his plans he unknowingly said it aloud. Memory spells were known to degrade and fail over the years and he could not afford to be known as a kidnapper of children. The parents would have to perish to insure his continued safety and elevated status.

And it would be better to use a light oriented couple to reduce the Dark taint in the child's magical blood.

"Maybe a muggleborn, perhaps, one that would know nothing of magic and have no connection to the wizarding world," Albus mused to the near silent room, absentmindedly tapping an unknown beat into the ancient wood of his large, cluttered desk.

No, they were often too weak to practice the higher level light spells he would need his weapon to wield, but an infusion of muggle blood would create much needed ties to the muggle world.

Hard, pale-blue eyes gazed out over his desk and out into the inky darkness that lay beyond the thin glass of the window. Thin, paper like skin pulled taunt over the bony, protruding knuckles of his hands as his fingers savagely curled inwards -an involuntary display of his hate- as Albus thought about that darkness and what it had taken from him. Years of old, blistering memories escaped their rusted cage and plagued his mind like a ravaging swarm as rage boiled within him.

With swiftness many would believe a man of his advanced age could not possess, Albus sank one of his gnarled hands inside the crystal candy bowl that forever called the desk its home. Knocking it to the floor and scattering the bright sweets, and retrieved some the potion laden candy that lay within, deftly popping them into his mouth to purge himself of his past. Swiftly sucking on the candies, the calming effect of the potion worked its wonders, and once again his mind became his own.

The Light's grand crusader locked the hated memories away once more and turned his gaze away from the innocent window and towards the many letters that littered his desktop. Missives from the ministry once again pleading for his assistance, letters from concerned parents regarding their children's safety, random request from his staff he had half a mind to throw out, and all other unimportant request on his time lay about. One parchment in particular caught his keen eye. It was an invitation to the small bonding ceremony of James Henry Potter and Lily Marie Evans.

Joy filtered through Albus' potion drugged mind as he thought about the lovely couple, and not for the innocent reasons one might think.

No, they were perfect. All that he could ask for and more.

James was one of his staunchest followers and from a long line of Light purebloods. Potter was what came to mind when one thought of Gryffindor:__brave, loyal to a fault, and stubborn as a hippogriff. His charming good looks and roguish nature could win over any cold hearted hag. With a wink from his hazel eyes and boyish smile he could have anyone eating from the palm of his hand and he knew it.

But James was a wild one. He rained pranks down upon the halls of Hogwarts, and his deep-seated enmity for all things Dark and Slytherin__was only matched by that of his best friend Sirius Black. He was the boy every girl wanted and every boy wanted to be; he had it all: money, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter name, looks, and power. Surprisingly, or not, it was Lily Evans who managed to get James to drop his wildish ways and force him to grow up.

Lily - the brightest witch of her age, muggleborn, and loving spirit - could not have been any more different than James. The arguments between the pair were legendary within the halls of Hogwarts. It seemed from the first step the pair took within the school their fate was intertwined, whether that was to maim or marry each other, it was anyone's bet at the time.

As the years grew, so did the arguments, until fifth year when James started to look at Lily differently and proclaimed her to be his future bride. Lily naturally took offence from the immature proclamation and took to avoiding James at all cost and furthering her friendship with James' self-proclaimed nemesis, Severus Snape.

What followed was an event many students and staff alike would not soon forget. The utter humiliation James brought upon Snape was likely a key point in fate. One which drove Lily away from a future Death Eater, her long time friend and confidante, and into the arms of her now future husband. Poor, young Severus never recovered from the event.

The two were perfect; it was like a sign from the divine he no longer believed in to say his plans were righteous. Albus could think of no other two beings he would rather have to bear him his weapon.

With the ancient pure blood that flowed through James' veins, any child Lily bore him would be of great magical strength and fortitude. With James as the father, the child might as well be born swaddled in the crimson and gold colors of the mighty Gryffindor house and bearing a deep hatred of anything Slytherin.

Lily's muggleborn blood would bring new life to the child and insure a connection between the magical and the muggle world. Her brilliances would work well with James' stubbornness, instilling greatness. The child would be born a natural, charismatic leader and others would surely flock to them.

Everything about the child's childhood would have to be carefully controlled, from their education, how much love they received, and even their friendships growing up. Dumbledore would have to engineer the child's friends when he/she finally re-entered the magical world, of course. As the muggles say, adversary builds character.

Even the gender of the child would have to be planned. The child would no doubt have to be a male due to the social inequality within the wizarding world, and a female child would break too easily. The masses would more easily follow a male than a female anyway (2). But that was easily taken care of with a potion or spell.

Alas, Albus was saddened by the thought of losing two of his most powerful followers, but he would ensure that their sacrifice was not in vain. At the death of the parents he would _benevolently_ make himself the legal magical guardian of the child and with that he would secure the vast Potter vaults in his name as Retainer until the child came of age or was emancipated. As the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot he could seal the Potter's Will and insure the child would be placed in a home of his own choosing.

And once again Lily's blood stepped up to the plate to provide the perfect housing for his weapon.

He knew Lily's and James' parents were deceased, James' from a tragic wizarding illness and Lily's from an automobile accident, and the only next of kin for the child would be Lily's hateful sister Petunia. He had heard many a horror story from Lily about Petunia's abhorrence of all things magical. He had even had the dubious honor to meet the spiteful woman once and she could not be any more perfect for what he needed of her. If tales of the muggle she married rang true, then the child was in for a hard and unloved childhood.

He would orchestrate the naïve child's very re-entrance into the magic world. Send one of his more dim but loyal followers to sing the Headmaster's praises and make the child indebted to him as his savior from his own personal hell.

Give the child only the information he saw fit for them to have and once the child was so blinded by his loyalty to him, have him sign away the Potter's fortune and seats of power as a Noble and Ancient house. He would surround the child with his Light family followers from the very moment he stepped foot on the train, turning the child's mind to only what he allowed him to see.

All for the greater good of course…

He knew that James' parents once followed the Old Ways, but not James himself. Albus would have to hide away the child's long-standing heritage and make sure he never came in contact with it. He could not have his weapon spoiled by that which failed Gellert.

Maybe the Weasleys could help him there. The couple was bound to have children of acceptable age by then, maybe more. The Weasley clan was known in the pureblood circles to spawn like unchecked rabbits. The family was also known as blood traitors, for long ago turning their back on the Old Ways and shunning those that practiced it. Having the family around his weapon was sure to keep him in check.

But how to get James and Lily to trust him enough to secrete them away so no one would know he had inferred so much in the child's life? Times were becoming tough and families did not need a reason to run and hide, but he knew James and Lily would never leave their friends behind to fight this gruesome war without good reason.

Once again the white-bearded man's mind became swamped with ideas, some devious and dark, and others simple and straightforward. But Lily was a clever witch and it would take a sound plan to go toe-to-toe with her brilliant mind.

The hoots and clinks of many shiny, polished knickknacks and trinkets filled the air as the ancient looking but formidable man thought his plans through. Looking out over his cluttered office filled with curiosities he had collected throughout his life and the slumbering portraits of deceased Headmasters of Hogwarts, light reflecting off a small, shining globe caught his eye. A remembrall,__a small magical devise that helped forgetful and simple wizards remember what they forgot.

But it was not the intended usage of the devise that caught his interest but the shape and swirling mass of silver fog inside.

A prophecy. Something that was so easily faked, hardly ever questioned, and brought fear or hope to the masses. Why, just the other day his Divination teacher came to him requesting he replace her, for she wished to flee to the safety of the continent with her family.

Once again it seemed like the Fates were smiling down upon him. Sibyll Trelawney was currently looking for someone fool-hardy enough to hire her and her questionable Seer skills. A few borderline Dark spells and an Obliviate later he would have his prophecy, and the Potter's pleading for his protection from whatever ill-fate would soon befall their son.

While he was at it, why not kill two Snidgets__with one spell. Why not _accidently_ leak the prophecy to the oh-so convenient Death Eater that happened to be close by and have him take it to his Master.

Not the whole thing. No, only enough to wet young Tom's appetite and bring about his insatiable curiosity. He knew Tom Riddle well. Tom would not allow this so called prophecy to rest peacefully. He would follow the breadcrumb trail to wherever Dumbledore needed him to be and then spring the trap.

If he was successful the plan would delay whatever sinister plot Tom had up his shadowy sleeves, giving him time to sequester his weapon away and begin planning the child's life in earnest.

He knew Tom had found some way to escape death but at this time he was uncertain to whatever they might be. But all Albus needed was time.

Merrily humming an old muggle tune (rather off key, mind you), Dumbledore set about making his brilliant plan a brilliant reality. He even scared himself sometimes concerning the mad, devious plans his mind came up with. He blamed it on his misguided youth and certain magic he would be doing the world a favor when he expunged it from all its sources and done away with it. He would clean this world and this prophecy child would help him.

"All for the greater good," Albus whispered breathlessly while sagely nodding his head.

All around him, the many shiny trophies and trinkets – a lifetime's worth of great achievements and intellectual accomplishments - reflected back a warped image of a once great man that no matter of twisting or turning of the metal could make straight again.

…

All throughout Dumbledore's scheming he was closely watched by the brilliant, scarlet and gold avian that firmly clung to his perch in the corner in remorse.

For many turbulent decades, Fawkes had stood by and watched as Albus slowly lost himself to a pitiful fate, a fate that he brought onto himself for turning his back on Magic. Many times Fawkes had entertained the idea of leaving and finding another powerful wizard to guard, but Magic had asked the dutiful phoenix to stay and watch over her once chosen Light Lord.

The chaotic thoughts weaving through the wizard's mind barely phased the immortal avian anymore. Dumbledore was not an evil man; the fiery being knew this well. He had just lost himself along his troubled path and now thought it his sacred duty to purge the world of the so-called Dark Arts. But in doing so he upset the balance Magic worked so hard to achieve, for there could not be Light without Darkness.

The goddess Magic could not bring herself to kill the duty-driven man she knew so well as a loving boy. The boy, who once said her blessings at every meal and worshipped her different attributes on their chosen days of Samhain, Yule, and Midsummer's Day - the young man who fell so deeply in love with her other chosen child.

For many years she had watched over the two and gave them her blessings of knowledge and power. But all too soon her darker chosen had fallen from grace. He soon began to greedily take more from her and gave so little in return, but still she watched over him. After many years of neglect from her darker child her blessings that kept the wild Dark magic from consuming his mind fell away and he quickly succumbed to madness.

For his neglect and abuse of the power she blessed him with, Gellert Grindelwald had to compensate by losing the man he loved and ultimately being defeated by him. Balance in all things.

Albus had pleaded with her to help his lover but she could not help that which refused to help itself, and so her light chosen turned from her as well, vowing to destroy all that she held dear just as the Old Magic had done to him.

But now she had a new Dark child and soon the one she hoped would take her light blessing would be born to this dreary world. Magic could not remove what she had given Albus Dumbledore those many years ago until someone strong enough to take the heavy burden arrived. The Nornir (3), Magic's omnipresent sisters, foretold of a great upheaval her chosen people would soon face and that she would need all she had to confront this and survive. For the loss of this battle meant Magic's end in the human world.

But Dumbledore's scheming was not new to the ancient entity. The goddess relied on the ever present Fawkes to forewarn her of any dangerous machinations the grieving wizard drudged up.

It did indeed seem as though the Nornir were working along with Dumbledore; for far too many important pieces of the puzzle fell all too easily into the wizard's lap. She would have to keep a careful eye on this, for this could only mean that the Nornir had something great in store for this prophetic, wizarding child Dumbledore was dreaming up. For like Magic, balance had to be kept in Fate. Fate did not bestow someone with more than the knowledgeable sisters believed they could bear. Those important to the Strings of Fate always paid early on for what they could achieve later in life.

Magic would have to insure Dumbledore's plans did not all come into fruition. Whatever her sisters had planned she could not undue, but Magic could work it to her advantage. She would seek out the child's mother and have Lily prepare one of Magic's most ancient rituals: a life for a life.

She knew Tom Riddle could not die, for she had made it so, but she could not permit him to kill this child. She, and evidently Fate, needed this child too gravely, and had toiled too hard to put this birth into motion for the Heir of Slytherin to ruin it with a brash and ill-advised action. Whatever her dear Dark Lord had planned would just have to be put on hold for a while. Karma, as they say, is a bitch.

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AN: Please Review

(1) Yes I know Gellert was imprisoned after the battle and didn't die, but this story is AU.

(2) I am in no way a sexist. I am quite proud to be of the female gender but considering Dumbledore's date of birth (1881) and the time period the wizarding world seems to be stuck in, Albus seeing a female hero weaker than a male hero is understandable.

(3) The Nornir are the Norse weaving women of Fate. Urd is the oldest of the sisters and she is believed to rule the past. Verdandi is the middle sister and rules the present. Skuld is the youngest and is said to be the ruler of the future.

(4) There are extended author notes on my profile that I recommended that you read. Some pertain to the story while others are just general info like updating, suggestions, and character info. I posted it there to keep my author notes simple and so that everyone would know where to look in case they needed to know anything.

(Rough draft started Sunday, January 08, 2012)

(Chapter posted Friday, March 30, 2012)

(Edited Tuesday, September 18, 2012)


	2. The Room Of Misfit Toys

**Disclaimer**: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

.

**Too Have Fallen**

**The Room Of Misfit Toys**

_I once knew a home built with bricks of lies and mortared with hate…_

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**.**

His first true friend and the solemn keeper of his many secretes, watched over him from her gilded cage in corner of the smallest bedroom of Number 4 Privet Drive.

The room may have once been a normal sized guest room at one time but over the years the numerous broken and neglected knickknacks that it had acquired within its four walls had greatly reduced its size. Only the thin, clear trails leading to the small cot in the corner and to the barred window on the far wall remained hazard free. The room was like that of the island of misfit toys; all things within its depths had been greatly used, rarely loved, broken and carelessly abandoned.

The side wall held a small child's work desk preciously held up by is disjointed legs and the wobbly chair that completed the set. The desk was awash with photos, books, used paper of all sizes, broken quills, and a miniature dragon statue that no longer had the magic to move –a soliloquy to life of the room's occupant. Not far from the desk was a cot that appeared to be on its last legs, desperately holding itself together to support the slight weight atop it.

It had been scarcely three weeks after returning from Hogwarts and his fifth year at the magical boarding school. Three weeks since he was lured into the Ministry of Magic and the seemingly infinite Hall of Prophecy it boasted within, and three weeks since he lost the only person who truly cared for him. He saw it every time he closed eyes: saw the stunned look on Sirius' face, the dark, ominous shimmer of the Veil's__surface behind his falling godfather's head, and then the suddenly empty space of where just before there had been a man.

Every time the image came to him, so did a mirage of conflicting emotions. First, came one of his oldest of friends, rage. Rage at himself for being so brash and springing Voldemort's trap, and misdirected rage at Sirius for leaving the safety of the Grimmauld's__wards and inadvertently getting himself killed. Hate followed on rage's coattails, bringing an accompaniment of preventable mistakes he made that night to his crowded mind.

Grief and depression soon rolled in like a turbulent, spring thunderstorms after rage and hate burned a wildfire through his thoughts. He had lost so much and put what precious else he had at risk, and now he had nothing to show for it. The knowledge that all he had hoped and dreamed of for the past two years of knowing Sirius was just as easily shattered as the fragile prophecy he watched tumble to the cold, marble floor was crushing.

His nightmares each night were always the same. He would watch vividly from beginning to end as the horrid night replayed itself: to the surreal vision in his History of Magic exam, to riding the dark, skeleton like Thestrals to London, and furthering along to when he ventured into the seemingly abandoned Ministry.

The scene would fast-forward from there to the moment he set eyes upon the innocent looking glass globe that ruled treacherously over his young fate. There it would seem to pause, as if the nightmare itself wished to point out that this was where an easy-seeming victory turned to a damming loss.

The nightmare would then skip ahead again, racing along with himself, his frantic friends, and pursuing Death Eaters through the seemingly catacomb-like structure that was the underbelly of the Ministry. Spells of blues, reds, yellows, and the ever faithful green flash out and give imagery to the black and lifeless backdrop, as his friends and he fight for their lives against overwhelming odds.

When the nightmare arrives at the night's finale it focuses solely on the middle of the limestone amphitheatre that is the Veil's resting place. Where Harry would find himself each repeating nightmare staring bewildered at the serrated glass shards that were once a whole prophecy, listening to the misty, disjointed words of a woman he thought insane. The words are always just as indistinctive in every nightmare as they were then when he first heard them spoken from the broken sphere, and no matter how many times the dream forces him to return to that spot, they never get any clearer.

The nightmare itself, however, never focuses on the moment Sirius is surprisingly hit with the unknown red spell from Bellatrix's dragon heartstring wand; it is always Harry himself that can never look away.

So night after night he awakes from his nightmares with a dead man's name on his lips; afraid to call out in fear of the vengeful wraith it would bring upon him in the form of his unwillingly awakened Uncle.

But as the weeks passed Harry began to look at that terrorizing night in more detail, wondering: was it truly only his fault? The more the small teen pondered it the more it became clear to him at which points the blame lay at his feet and that of others. His largest mistake in the whole debacle was going at all.

Not only did he have Sirius' two-way mirror but he could have gone to any staff member and explained what was going on. He could even have bitten the proverbial bullet and gone to Snape to see if the situation was indeed real. The hated Potions Professor may not have been the most understanding member of the staff to go to but he knew of the connection Harry shared with Voldemort and may have alerted the missing Headmaster or something. But no, he had to be a Gryffindor and save Sirius himself and get the prophecy before the Dark Lord.

The Potter heir wished he could blame Bellatrix for cursing Sirius into the veil.__But as the scene repeated again and again in his nightmares and waking thoughts, he could see the outcome of the curse was not what Bella had intended. It was a look of pure shock and confusion, a brief widening of her manic, brown eyes; as though she could not believe she had just killed her own blood. Even while she gleefully cries out that she had killed Sirius Black, he can never recall seeing her glee being reflected in the solemn look of her eyes. Thinking that Sirius was just poorly positioned to take the hex was a cool balm to Harry's wounded mind.

Harry also blamed Dumbledore for evading him all year, keeping this all important prophecy from him this entire time, and brushing his occlumency lessons off on the man who probably hated him more than Voldemort. Snape was to blame for trying to teach him Occlumency the way he did and Harry blamed himself for never undertaking any self-study in the area. Lastly, he regrettably laid the blame at Sirius' feet for leaving the wards of Grimmauld Place.__The man was a wanted criminal and he left the only secure location to play the hero and rescue his godson.

Harry hoped that the saying "time heals all wounds" was true, because he felt a gaping hole within himself now that he lost his godfather and the only chance he had of escaping the Dursleys_**. **_

The very thought of their names evoked a massive shudder through his thin frame. It seemed Dumbledore - in all his kindness and infallible wisdom - saw fit to forewarn the Dursleys that he had lost his godfather, murderer and run-away convict Sirius Black, and he would need their utmost care and attention to heal. With this joyous news the Dursleys struck back with a vengeance for the tireless months they lived in terror believing the infamous man would come for them.

What petty meals he received through the cat flap in the door were stagnant with age or half eaten castoffs from last night's dinner. At first the soup cans were fortunate circumstances to look forward to but they quickly became worst than the mold covered bread or rotten fruit.

It was like playing Russian Roulette with the soup cans. Sometimes they came through the flap opened and would quickly tumble to their sides causing their contents to fan out onto the spotted carpet. Harry was then forced to try and scoop the runny soup off the floor if he wanted something to eat that day. Other times the tin cans came unopened; with no way for him to open them. Early attempts to open the cans within his room proved dangerous when the _loud ruckus_ he was making summoned his inebriated uncle. Only a few times did the cans make it safely from their perilous journey into his room - cold with congealed grease floating on top and the sharp edges biting into his skin as he fished the contents out.

With Dudley home for school break Harry's living situation only became worse. Gone was the beached whale Dudley characterized in his youth. A large majority of the pounds of fat had been burned away and in their place stood solid, trained muscle. Dudley still held a grudge against Harry for the pig tail, the Twin's candy, and the Dementor, and this fevered grudge played out in his punches.

When the British market took a down turn due to the country's political unrest earlier that year, so too did Vernon's paycheck. Layoffs became rampant in the drills company he worked for and Vernon barely held on to his managing position, but he took a grievous cut in pay and benefits. After almost losing his job and troubles with his marriage, Vernon took to heavy drinking. The man's rage against his own life situation was soon taken out on Harry in the form of bone cracking kicks, winding punches, and venom-soaked verbal abuse.

Harry took to hiding under his ratty cot whenever he heard Vernon's boisterous steps proceeding up the stairs, hoping against hope that if his Uncle could not see him then the man would be too intoxicated to bother looking. Despite all the abuse his Uncle and Cousin did to him, Harry was ever so grateful that it never took of any sexual connotations.

His Aunt Petunia took to treating him as if he were an unwanted pet that was infringing on her beautiful, normal home. She would wake him early in the morning with a swift knock and her shrill, harpy-like voice telling to him wake up and use the loo. The verbal abuse she once rained down upon his head when he was younger all but stopped when he returned that year. In its place was the perpetual sneer and look of disgust whenever she was near him. Harry reckoned it was an improvement but the thought that she would not even look at him anymore lead him to believing in its falsehood.

'All in all, it's turning out to be another exciting summer holiday,' Harry thought sarcastically as he slowly came out of the beating induced unconsciousness his Cousin left him in the night prior. Pain seared from almost every nerve ending in his body, even his matted hair was complaining about something, as Harry carefully and slowly shuffled onto his blistered and bleeding back.

After minutes of careful repositioning and slow, wary movements, he achieved his goal and lay winded from pain on his small cot. Thoughts on last night's confrontation fluttered lazily across his mind as he took stock of all his limbs, ribs, fingers, and toes.

Noticing the small amount of color that was just starting to paint the umber sky outside his barred window, Harry knew his Aunt would soon be by to wake him and let him out to use the bathroom. Not soon after the thought left his mind Harry heard the door to his Aunt and Uncle's room brush open and the light footfalls of Petunia approaching his door. The boy laid quietly on his cot as he heard the many industrial bolts and locks click to the open position and his Aunt call out to him to get up and do his business.

Gritting through the pain of his muscle pulling taunt over his damaged ribs, Harry staggered to his unsteady feet and wobbled slowly to the closed door. He could hear Petunia, with her quiet muttering, growing impatient with his slow progress and the vindictive teen thought about moving slower just to spite the acerbic woman. But despite how much that small victory would please him, the consequences would be the loss of his bathroom time and his only allowance of time outside his room.

With his right arm gingerly wrapped around his abdomen in hopes to relieve the pain and his left moving to whatever object was in reach to keep balance, the infamous Boy-Who-Lived finally made it to the door. And quick, shuffled steps had him safely across the hall and into the cramped guess bathroom.

Only having ten minutes causes one to prioritize how they spent their time in a restroom. Harry, knowing that the next time he would be allowed out of the room was before Petunia headed to bed, promptly relieved the building pressure in his lower abdomen. After washing his hands, he consumed as much tepid water as his damaged stomach could hold to offset the gnawing hunger and took off the circus tent of a shirt he wore to assess the damage from the night before. Harry tried his hardest to avoid looking at his reflection within the mirror as he fumbled around wetting toilet paper to try and clean his wounds.

'Don't, they're not worth it. It doesn't matter, none of it matters._'_ Harry thought heatedly as he tried to hold back the tears that were burning his eyes. He had stopped crying from his relatives' abuse many years ago, but everything that had happened over the last few months was taking its toll. With motions that were methodical and learned from much experience, Harry cleaned his wounds as best he could with what sparse supplies he had.

Once done, he struggled to put the overly large shirt back onto his thin frame, suddenly feeling lightheaded from the abrupt movements. A harsh knock at the wooden door startled the raven-haired boy from his distracted thoughts and the jolt to his injured ribs causing him to take a sharp, hissing breath in pain.

Harry quickly tidied up and took one last glimpse at the stranger in the mirror. The reflected face bore Lily's verdant eyes and James' unruly black hair, pale skin and a familiar jagged scar on their face - so much alike to himself. The mimic even had the exact same large, cracked oval glasses he knew his own gaze to be trapped behind. So similar, but Harry could not find the person he thought himself to be within the world weary face that stared back.

No traces of the valiant Boy-Who-Lived, prophesized defeater of the Dark Lord remained. Harry James Potter - Dumbledore's Gryffindor Golden Boy, youngest Seeker in centuries, and leader of the Golden trio - was conspicuously absent. It was not the face of the wizarding world's boy savoir and noble hero. All his masks were gone. He was left lost; unknowing of who he truly was, left only with the knowledge of what other people wanted him to be - floundering about without a solid identity.

Was he the scared, lonely child banished under the stairs with only the dark, the spiders, and his nightmares to keep him company; the freak son of drunken, no good parents? Or was he the arrogant, happy-go-lucky Gryffindor who was friends with everyone; proud prodigy of James and Lily Potter, shinning symbol of the light and savoir of the wizarding world?

'They are the same person, I am still me. My trials might have changed me but I refuse to give in. I'll find myself again, pick up whatever pieces there are left, put them back together, and continue through this.' The words were like a mantra bowling through his clouded mind as he gripped the cold cheap, faux-marble edges of the sink. Glaring steadily into the green irises of his counterpart, he hoped to find himself anew. All he had at the moment was hope.

After leaving the bathroom and making the journey slowly back to his room - savoring what little freedom he had - he was once again hidden away from decent folk as his Aunt relocked his door. Harry could barely make it back to the cot before falling flat on his face. Groaning in pain, all Harry wanted now was to pass out and hopefully spend this horrendous summer in the black bliss of unconsciousness. Lack of food and poor health care swiftly granted the young man's wish. The last thing he saw was the blurry form of a dark owl sitting outside his window before Morpheus took him in his arms.

…xXx…

Harry was once again entangled in a dream, a nightmare. This one was unlike the others that had assaulted since the beginning of summer.

No, this nightmare was different. At first Harry thought it a peaceful dream. A much needed reprieve from the hellish visions of his nighttime slumber. A disillusion with laughing children running wild decorated as ghost, goblins, and other wicked things; all within the careful watch of loving parents. His happiness was soon shattered when a thin, pale wand - one he knew so well - was plucked from the billowing sleeve of the dark, Dementor-like shape he was shadowing. The ominous figure no one else but he seemed to see. Harry clung to the desperate knowledge that this could not be a vision from Voldemort because his surroundings told him it was Halloween and he knew it to be July in the waking world.

Harry was hopelessly pulled along like a dog on a leash as the dark figure approached a conspicuously vacant lot in the back half of the rambunctious square and stared into the empty space as if studying the air about it. Moments later the wand came alive, fluttering through the air in an intricate dance that had Harry momentarily fascinated by the skill of the wizard before him. The wand work was done so silently and with a determined feel to its movements that it was a terrifying testament to the man's strength.

The sounds of the lively children slowly drained from Harry's ears, along with the color from his face, as the form of an unmistakable house gradually took shape in the once bare lot. What he was seeing dawned on him as the cheery Gryffindor red-mailbox with "Potter" spelled out in gold lettering appeared just in front of the white gate.

"How can this be happening? How can I be seeing this? I was a baby; I have no memory of this." Harry struggled in vain to turn and run from what he was sure he would be forced to witness. "Please dear Merlin I don't want to see this. Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up damn you!" Harry cried out hoarsely as he pinched and slapped himself, anything to try and wake from this night terror.

Despite his best efforts Harry was forced to pursue and watch Voldemort stride up the cobblestone path and blast the door to the cozy, two-story home wide off its hinges. He stared in morbid shock over the invading Dark Lord's shoulder as James fearfully called out to Lily to take the baby Harry and run. The battle trained Auror then quickly took a fighting stance, determined to hold off the invader and detrimental force that had come to take his son's life.

Harry's teary eyes instantly found his mother's form making a speedy retreat up the brown stained staircase of his long forgotten memories and heard the door slam shut to what he supposed was his upstairs nursery.

A sharp cry brought Harry's focus back to the distinctly one-sided battle that was going on in the once intimate and welcoming living room. Now the space was aflame from a misdirected spell, with pictures tilting off the walls, stuffing exploding forth from deep gashes in couch cushions, and a dark green fire burning malevolently in the hearth giving an eerie backdrop to this duel to the death.

No matter James' skill, he was clearly not up to par with Lord Voldemort and the knowledge was transparent in his eyes and actions. The invader moved with an ethereal grace dodging and countering spells, quickly eating up the ground that separated the two combatants. Only after a few rounds of colorful, deadly spells, James made his last ditch effort to banish the Dark Lord, opening himself up to attack and swiftly took the _Avada Kedavra_ to his chest.

To Harry it all seemed to play out in slow motion. He mournfully watched as his father, a man he could barely remember, fold heavily at the knees - with a look of shock chiseled on his features - and land face first in shards of glass from a nearby broken lamp.

Over the course of the duel the hood covering Voldemort's head was blown back bringing his features into the sparse light of the destroyed home. Harry, for the first time, looked upon the face of his true enemy; untouched by the Dark Arts ritual that had born the monstrous guise the Serpent Lord sported today.

The being before him - for it was hard to think of this evil creature as just a simple man - had the striking features of a true royal. Deep set and smoldering ruby eyes, framed by thin dark lashes, stood out amongst an ivory toned face that was wide at the forehead, with high cheek-bones, and tapered down to a narrow chin. And the thin, pale lips that rested under a lithe nose and the long strands of obsidian hair that flanked his face from where it had fallen out of the leather tie at the back of neck completed the look.

Upon his victory the Dark Lord walked over to his defeated foe and looked down upon the body with detached respect. Voldemort gracefully kneeled down next to the dead James, gently turning the body over onto its back and placed two long fingers over the blank eyes, respectfully closing the quickly cooling lids. The would-be ruler of the magical world then placed James' lost mahogany wand into the body's hands and placed them over the heart that had ceased to beat as if honoring his foe. Harry was briefly stunned by the strange display of post-mortem courtesy and could only stare bewildered by the man's actions as the house continued to burn around them.

Quickly the moment passed and Voldemort turned his head to the direction of the stairs as if listening to what might be occurring on the second floor. Whatever he did or did not hear must have been deemed acceptable and he began to ascend the magically damaged staircase.

Harry turned misty eyes around the home he never got the chance to grow into, trying to memorize every facet of it. He attempted to picture himself living happily here with his parents, Sirius, and Remus; what holidays would have been like with a loving family and spent beyond a locked cupboard door.

Dust and smoke choked the air, making sightseeing impossible, but still Harry stayed, trying to avoid what he knew would transpire upstairs. He did not wish to see the death of his mother like he was forced to watch that of his father. But as the Dark Lord got farther away the scene began to blur and Harry suddenly found himself standing outside the door to his nursery.

Voldemort once again blasted the door open and immediately trained his yew wand on Lily Potter.

Moonlight streamed in from the open window, casting a pale glow all about the powder-blue painted room. The sheer white curtains fluttered and a wind chime tinkled in the cool nighttime breeze, giving a sense of peace that clashed with the high tension atmosphere. The unforgettable scene played out exactly as it had from his memories caused by the chilling presence of Dementors.

She looked just like he had imagined she would. Auburn hair shinning and wild about her pale face and brilliant green eyes set with determination; a mighty lioness defending her cub from a deadly threat.

Harry could tell his mother knew she would not make it out of this encounter alive and it pained him to know she was right. Unlike his nightmares caused by the Dementors, Harry noticed his mother breaking a small charm bracelet she held in her left hand while pleading with Voldemort to kill her instead of little Harry.

The all too familiar dark emerald light flashed from the yew wand after her third plea was rejected - causing Harry to jump despite the expectedness of it - and struck Lily Potter, silencing her scream.

Inside the cushy baby bed the toddler cried out for his mother, disturbed and frighten by all the sudden movement and loud shouting. Tears anew fell from Harry's eyes as he watched the red jumper clad baby trying to reach for his fallen mother in vain, crying for her attention and comfort.

He watched as Voldemort gracefully stepped around the women's body and approached the crib. The whimpering child, noticing the unknown man, stood on shaky legs and held out its pudgy arms to the dark figure, pleading to be held and comforted. Harry did not know whether to laugh at the distasteful face Voldemort made or scold the naïve child for being so stupidly trusting.

"How could you, one so small, become _my_ vanquisher?" Harry started at the sound of the smooth, baritone voice. He did not expect Voldemort to speak, especially to that of a fifteen month old child. The teenager trembled as the robe clad figure raised his pale wand, pointed the tip at the child's head and spoke the Killing Curse's incantation.

Time did not slow nor did anything truly miraculous happen. The _unblockable_, past-time favorite spell of all Death Eaters simply rebounded off the child's forehead and struck its castor instead – just as he had always been told. The look of pure shock on the man's face was surreal but that was quickly replaced with one of unimaginable pain as his body started to disintegrate. Harry watched in abject horror as he remembered the same thing happening to Professor Quirrell after he touched him in the chamber that held the Mirror of Erised.

The room was ripped asunder with the force of the rejected magic and all around him the remains of the once sturdy house began to crumble. With a deafening screaming a dark silhouette detached itself from the smoldering remains and empty fine robes before it fled out the broken window as the scene slowly darkened.

.

xXx

.

With teary eyes wide and unseeing, a scream wailing from his throat, Harry awoke, trembling from the nightmare. The jerky movements caused pain to bloom all across his body but he barely noticed its existence, still trapped in the afterimages of the dream.

Harry gingerly rolled over onto his healing back once more, taking deep steadying breaths to fight off the pain and the sensation of still being in the burning home. 'It felt so real…like I was actually there, standing inside the house and beside the bastard as he murdered my parents… That couldn't have been a dream.'

For an hour the only sounds within the room was the pitter-patter of rain on the window panes and shingled roof of Number Four and the wheezing breath of a battered teenager. There was no sound of a blaring television, clamorous noise from a stereo, or the rattling of stainless steel appliances from the kitchen. All was thankfully quiet at Number 4.

The teen lost himself in his thoughts of the nightmare while staring out the rained streaked window and the green unidentifiable objects beyond. His right hand mindlessly played with his greasy black hair, from where it laid above his head, as his left, which was atop his bruised stomach fisted in his cousin's large football team shirt.

A raspy hoot brought him back from the past and he focused his emerald gaze on the thinning form of his molted, feathered friend in the corner. His Uncle had padlocked her cage and he had tried asking Vernon every time he saw the malevolent man if he would please let Hedwig out. But the last time he asked, Vernon had threatened that if bothered him one more time about the _ruddy bird_ he would cook her and force Harry to eat her burnt, blackened corpse. So the owl dismally remained locked in her cage as he remained locked in a larger one of his own.

The teenager gingerly untangled himself from his frayed bed cover, climbed onto shaky legs and traversed the cluttered floor towards the cage with shuffled steps. He slipped thin fingers between the magically tarnish-resistant bars of the enclosure and reverently stroked the soft, spotted, white feathers of his most cherished friend. The owl bowed her noble head and nudged the fingers in a placating gesture in hopes to lighten his mood.

"What are we going to do girl if they don't come for us? I'm not sure either one of us will make it until my birthday. I haven't heard anything from anyone all summer; not even Ron or Hermione. What if they have forgotten about us?"

Harry weakly chuckled at the soft reprimanding nips his fingers received from the motherly owl for such negative thoughts.

"I know, we go through this every summer… I get depressed and think they are not coming, you keep me leveled headed, and the Order shows up just in the nick of time to save the day." Harry quietly sighed, leaning his forehead against the silver cage and staring into the deep golden eyes of the wise Hedwig. A quiet hoot was all the affirmation he received as the owl prepared to rest more by raising a shaky wing and placing her feathered head underneath.

Harry fell back against the wall beside the cage and slid down the surface coming to an abrupt stop on the dirty floor in a huff of pain. Upon second thought, Harry realized this was not one of his better ideas. The sliding action had aggravated the lacerations along his back and his bunched up shirt was now sitting uncomfortably in a wedge between his back and the wall but he cared too little to move.

Hands picking at one of the many large holes in his ratty shirt, Harry reluctantly thought back on his supposed nightmare. It had seemed too real - too sequential - to be just a regular dream but it was so unlike any vision he had received from Voldemort.

In Voldemort's visions Harry usually played the role of the Dark Lord. He felt the man's fury at his incompetent followers and his twisted joy when his plans succeeded.

There were a few times when Harry was a silent observer. Mainly the man sat in a shrouded study at a dark stained desk writing out orders or spell work. The paranoid man never used any names just an undecipherable short-hand script that the brunette was at a loss to decipher.

Rarely did Harry ever find himself within what looked to be a large bedroom decorated in earthy hues. Harry would sit in the far corner and watch the serpent-like man for hours as Voldemort sat in front of the hearth in an antique wing-backed chair staring pensively into the flickering flames, nursing a glass of what looked to be firewhiskey. Harry was never sure why these visions lasted longer than the others but he guessed it had something to do with the lack of disturbing content to wake him.

Voldemort rarely ever spoke or moved, if he did it was to whisper something to Nagini Harry could not hear or to sip from his glass. Harry swore sometimes the Dark lord would stare right at him in his corner or Nagini would try and venture over to him only to be stopped by her master. It was about this time Harry would wake from the visions and spend the rest of the hours until dawn thinking about the different sides to the enigma of a man.

Suddenly, a sharp rap on the glass panes of the blotchy window above him startled the Gryffindor to attention. Harry was momentarily dumbfounded as he looked around his room for whatever may have caused the noise until his eyes rested on Hedwig. The owl stared at her confused master as if he was stupid and then nodded her plumed head towards the barred window.

After finally catching on to what it could possibly be, hope and joy erupted through his chest and the young man ungracefully scrabbled to his feet. His uncoordinated and hasty movements only hampered his quest to stand, and after tripping over his own feet he fell with a yelp to an indignant heap on the floor –causing the Snowy Owl to roll her eyes and shake her head. After a blush consumed his face, the abashed teen slowed down his careless steps and soon stood victorious in front of the window.

Only problem was that Harry did not recognize the soaking wet owl that balefully glared at him from outside. He shrunk back from the look alone and was contemplating leaving the amber-eyed, evil spirit outside. Anything that could produce a glare to rival that of Severus Snape the Gryffindor wanted nothing to do with.

But Harry was desperate for any human contact beside that of his abusive relatives, starving for any kind of news about the war. He had not received a single piece of mail from any of his friends, Dumbledore, or the Order. Ron and Hermione had promised on the train back to King's Cross Station that come Hell or high water they would write to him and keep him updated about the war and the Ministry now that Fudge acknowledged Voldemort was indeed back, but so far they had not made do with that promise.

Harry threw his indecisiveness to the side and decided any news was good news; even if delivered from this rather demonic-looking owl. Careful to not make too much sound, as to not alert Vernon he has opening the forbidden window, he finally got the lower shelf as high as he could manage and took a deep cleansing breath of the fresh rain-soaked air that exploded forth into the musty room. The raven haired teen closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the rare treat of the clean air before proceeding.

Opening his eyes, Harry took a gander at the foul tempered avian that was pacing back and forth awaiting his attention. The bird was a rather large Great Horned Owl, with black feathers that bled russet and red at the tips, intimidating amber eyes, and dark red horn feathers. The perched owl swiftly held out his right leg for Harry to take the letter it was carrying.

Harry could tell the owl was getting aggravated by his lack of response and quickly untied the tethered letter from its hovering foot. Freed from the missive, the bird then turned its feathered head towards the padlocked cage in the corner, looked Hedwig up and down, and impatiently took to the skies.

"Bloody rude bird. Whichever unfortunate soul he belongs to I hope they don't send it back." Harry whispered watching the bird disappear into the distance, cradling the letter like a rare treasure to his chest.

Only after all the adrenaline worn off did Harry figure it was rather reckless of him to take a letter from an unknown owl. He looked down at the deceptively innocent cream-colored envelope, turning it every which way in his small hands for inspection. There were no indicative markers, seals, or lettering of any kind. It was blank. It felt heavy and the parchment of expensive quality but little else was left to be discovered by its outside appearance alone. Harry knew only a few people who could afford such fine paper and any news from them would either be really good or horribly bad.

Harry's mind warred with itself about what to do with the letter. The Gryffindor lion wanted to open it; damn the consequences and the Slytherin snake wanted to do away with it. The snake whispered that there were too many unknown variables and the last time something like this had happened, Sirius ended up dead. But the lion roared that surely it was just Dumbledore and the Headmaster had not used any markings so that if the letter was intercepted it could not be traced. Both had equally good points and Harry was stuck in a quandary.

He stood staring dumbly at the letter for some time weighting his options until commotion at the window captured his attention.

It was the devil owl! It was back for some reason. The bird flapped its impressive wings and rapped intently on the metal bars blocking the aperture. After sufficiently gaining Harry's attention it held out its taloned foot once more. Within the gleaming claws was what he hoped was a _dead,_ waterlogged rat and the Gryffindor could not help but stare in bewilderment at bird's present.

"Umm… No thank you. I don't eat rats." Harry did not think he would ever reach the point where staying at the Dursleys would be worth having rats on the menu. But the owl screeched at his misunderstanding and turned its amber gaze towards Hedwig.

The proverbial light bulb then clicked on and Harry promptly reached out to take the deceased rodent. As soon as the rat was in his hand the owl snapped his beak around Harry's right pointer finger, drawing blood, and took flight once more.

"Shit! That bloody wanker!" Harry cursed loudly, immediately dropping the letter and the sodden rat from his hands and cradled his injured appendage close to his chest. Hunched over and sides heaving in deep breaths to control the pain, he looked around trying to find something to cease the impressive flow of blood. Finding nothing of use, he improvised a make-shift bandage from a small strip of cloth from the shirt he was wearing.

With his injured hand still held to his chest Harry bent down and retrieved the grey rat from the floor. The teen grimaced at how its head disturbingly flopped to one side so easily and was rather hasty to stuff it through the small feeding door. Hedwig hooted in appreciation and quickly took the rodent between her taloned feet and tore into it with her beak.

Harry's empty stomach rolled at the nauseating sight and he swiftly about-faced so he could escape the disgusting sight. With a green face he bent down a second time to pick up the letter. He struggled to right himself again from exhaustion and pain flaring in his abdomen, and promptly decided he better sit down before his face had a rendezvous with the floor.

Harry found himself once again sprawled out on his back over the space-challenged mattress, having a staring contest with the mysterious letter.

The pros and cons played a vicious game of tennis back and forth as the teen sank his teeth into his bottom lip and drummed his bony, callused fingers along the edges of the missive. Harry turned to Hedwig for advice on the matter and saw that the owl happily preening her feathers and looking more alive than she had in days. The Gryffindor shrugged his shoulders and decided that anyone with a pet that would go out of its way to bring a starving owl something to eat could not be that bad. Surely it had to be from someone in the Order, they were the only ones that knew the location of his summer abode anyway.

Having made his decision Harry flipped the letter over and tore away at the flap, carefully keeping his still bleeding finger away from the extravagant stationery. Upon extracting the parchments from their sleeve he noticed immediately that all were barren of ink.

Yet again he was dumbfounded.

The teenager shuffled and pondered over the spotless paper, trying everything he could imagine Dumbledore would do to camouflage whatever was written. He rattled off all the candy and secret words he could think of. Ranging from Jolly Ranchers to Ice Mice, the password to the Marauder's map and facts only Order members would know - he even tried abracadabra and open sesame.

Frustrated by nothing working, Harry tangled his scrawny hands into his hair and pulled at the roots as he fixed his tired eyes on the stucco ceiling.

"What prat sends someone a letter with nothing on it?" Letting out a deep solemn sigh Harry admitted defeat for the time being and decided to hide the devious letter before one of the Dursleys found it and incinerated whatever secrets it held in its silence.

The battered wizard then rolled onto his left side, used his arm as a fulcrum and gingerly lifted himself into a seated position. Hunched over, left hand resting on his knee and his forehead nestled in his cupped palm, Harry used his right hand to blindly search behind him for the stationery. Finding his quarry, he brought the now blood stained parchment into his view. Disappointed, Harry huffed at the swathe of blood that now ran across one of the page's front.

What happened next really should not have surprised him as much as it did considering his history with such things.

Astonishingly the blood absorbed into the paper, disappearing from view, and letters began to form. Harry hesitated for a second as he watched words flood the pages. What was once blank was now filled with a scrolling, refined script he did not recognize.

'Who in the Order would use my blood as a passkey?' The list came out unsurprisingly brief after some thought, with just a few names: Dumbledore, Moody, or Snape. Moody was the most likely suspect since he had never witnessed the man's writing. He would know Snape's poisonous scrawl anywhere and Dumbledore wrote with a big, loopy script.

But why would Moody be writing him? Chewing on his lower lip, Harry pondered the implications. With a put upon sigh and fed up with beating around the bush, he began to read.

'What harm ever came from reading a letter?'

**AN: **Please Review

**Recommended Reading: **

A Snake Named Voldemort by Estalita11

"After being turned into a snake and unable to change back, Lord Voldemort is forced to turn to the only other living Parselmouth, Harry Potter. After making a deal, Harry agrees to help the Dark Lord return to his human form. SLASH HP/LVTMR"

A romance story with a not-so-fluffy but loveable TMR and a new spin on the classic theme of Voldemort being turned into a snake; what more could you ask for? Full of humor and serious moments as well, it makes for a well-written and entertaining read.


	3. Castles Built On Sand

**Disclaimer**: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**.**

**Too Have Fallen**

**Castles Built On Sand**

_I once knew the truth but then I found them to be lies…_

**.**

_Fear not Mr. Potter—or should I call you Lord Potter-Black now that the deceased Black has named you his only heir: by either address, this missive comes to you with an offer of peace. If it had not, you would have been dead by now. Surely you do not open just any blank letter that comes to you? Have you learned nothing in the past five years? _

_It matters not, since in this case your Gryffindor____stupidity works well within my favor. _

_._

"Sirius named me his heir?" Harry could not restrain the thought as it tumbled out his mouth. This was the first time he had heard anything about this. Why had no one told him?

.

_This letter can only be read by you and you alone, and I'm sure it finds you well within that muggle sty Dumbledore thinks he has you protectively hidden away in. The matter of how this letter found you puts that theory into question, does it not?_

_As I have aforementioned, I have come to certain realizations about your involvement in this war and____have decided furthering our current hostilities is no longer as prudent as it once was. So I offer you peace, Lord Potter-Black._

_Yes, I think I will call you that. Because that is what you should be known as. Even if you know nothing of the wizarding world's ancient traditions, that does not mean I should be remise in their practice._

_You truly know nothing of your heritage and it is a shame Dumbledore has sunk his talons so deeply into you, child, for you could have been a formidable noble by just your name alone._

_But now the Potter legacy will fall into obscurity and your ancestors' culture lost when you never come to understand what it means to hold what you do. Two of the most Ancient and Noble Houses, all their power and history, their knowledge and legends, at your very fingertips, but you allow your prejudice views on magic to blind you to this treasure._

_But I digress. I am sure by now you are rather curious as to why I would offer you this olive branch at this point in time. I simply ask you to read my reasoning in its entirety before you dismiss this letter, and my only offer of peace. This will be your one and only chance, as I shall not extend it again._

.

'I don't think this is Moody.' Harry's hands trembled at the sudden realization of the only possibility of whom this letter could have come from.

Why had he been so stupid to touch this damned thing? He had acted every bit like the stupid Gryffindor the man accused him of being. Was he really that predictable?

He so badly wanted to burn the offensive article now but he shuttered to a halt as his traitorous eyes took in the next few lines. His Slytherin curiosity as to the purpose of why Voldemort would be writing him and this so-called truce would not allow him to let the letter go.

.

_Where to start so that you might understand best…_

_Why not at the beginning, where this Greek tragedy of ours began: the Prophecy._

_Over the last few weeks you have been experiencing a certain recurring nightmare, have you not? Yes, this was my doing but not for the nefarious purpose that you may think. _

_Even before that Halloween night I questioned that so called prophecy that intertwined our fates. It had the lingering traces of Dumbledore's plotting all over it. Keep in mind I have known the man for far longer than yourself, and when you come face to face across the battlefield as often as Dumbledore and I myself have, you get to know the man behind the mask._

_Over a decade and a half or so ago, when my spy brought me only the first few lines of the prophecy, I dismissed the whole thing as a hoax of Dumbledore's at first. I had plans that were soon to come into fruition and I had not the time for the man's games. _

_But then two children were born on that fated day, and Dumbledore sent the families into hiding. My followers that knew of the prophecy began to fear its genuineness and grew restless. Soon they would take action against it even if I did not. I knew whatever Dumbledore was planning was too dangerous for me to delegate to one of my trustworthy, so I decided to make my move against him._

_The simple Pettigrew was more than willing to supply the information that Dumbledore had convinced the Potters to make the rat their secrete keeper. The question as to why Dumbledore would make the man he suspected as a Death Eater, and not the faithful Black, the key to the Potter's wards crossed my mind at the time, but I had deemed it in my favor and took the blessing for what I thought it was._

_I sent you a little visual aide to go a long with this story earlier; I do hope you can follow along._

.

And that's when it hit him, striking him like a furious bolt of lightning. The nightmare he had experienced earlier that day _was_ indeed a vision—just not the usual visions he had received from the man before. At its core, it had been Voldemort's recollection of the night he attacked the Potters.

Stunned, Harry slowly placed the letter aside for the moment. He did not know what to think about this realization; so many thoughts and emotions warred for dominance within him. He was furious at the man for being so blasé about the topic of the 'visual aide,' but he was also very curious about what the Dark Lord had to say about the prophecy and Dumbledore's involvement in all this.

But was it worth it? Could he believe whatever the man said?

He had to make the decision now. Harry was quickly realizing that whatever this letter contained could very much change his life. What he had read so far was surely innocent considering what else this letter might contain. If he stopped now and threw the letter away, then he would never know. He could go back to his life as knew it to be and forget he had ever received a peace-treaty from the mad man trying to kill him. Go back to being Dumbledore's Golden Boy and the wizarding world's Savior. What was the saying, "ignorance is bliss?"

But if he continued to read, even if the man's words turned out to be lies, Harry would always have that doubt. The doubt Dumbledore was keeping something from him.

If the letter somehow showed to be miraculously true, then he had just damned himself. What would he do then? Who could he turn to? If he took the man's offer of peace then he would be turning his back on his friends, Dumbledore, and the wizarding world.

For that matter, could this letter really claim something that would make him want to turn coward? It was Voldemort, after all.

But he had to know. Sirius had lost his life for that prophecy. His friends and he had risked their lives to find out what it contained and to keep it out of the Dark Lord's hands. But the man had found a way around their sacrifice and now claimed that Harry was no longer his enemy. So whatever Voldemort had discovered about the ill-fated prophecy must have been important enough to prompt the man into writing this letter of peace.

Curiosity once again won out. With turbulent feelings, Harry picked the letter back up and continued to read where he left off, praying to Merlin that he had just made the right decision.

.

_The night was going exactly as how I envisioned it would, until I came upon your mother in the nursery. __In a way, Dumbledore is correct—your mother's protection kept me from killing you that night, but in another he is wrong. How many other mothers do you think have thrown themselves in front of curses to save their child's life, yet still the child dies? Why would your mother's sacrifice be any different from theirs?_

_Do you know what the __Līf to Līf __ritual __is? No, I cannot believe that you would. It is a life for a life, a simple yet archaic ritual that must be completed seconds before the last sacrifice is to die but put upon the child and blessed by Magic some time in advance._

_It is what Dumbledore and his Ministry would have you believe as Dark Magic, but known to the ancient houses as the Old Ways. The Old Ways and the Līf to Līf ritual is a closely guarded secret to those who know of it, an relic of times passed, where traditions and heritage were important to society. One must wonder where the little mudblood learned of such a thing._

_._

_Harry grimaced at the derogative term and it being used in conjunction with his mother, but his resolve held firm and he moved on to the next line._

_._

_I would tell you to find the runes Teiwaz and Uruz somewhere upon your body but I am sure you do not know what I am referring to. _

_._

_Well, Voldemort was right about that. Not having taken Ancient Runes, Harry really did not know what the man was talking about but he guessed the lightning bolt scar on his forehead was one such mark. As for the other, that answer was lost to him, as he found no others, and no one had pointed out any strange markings on his back or some other equally hidden place his eyes could not see._

_._

_Your mother would have written the runes in their blood, and if Magic accepted her request the runes would have appeared on your skin the moment she died as acknowledgement of their sacrifice._

_Yes, "their" sacrifice, because it takes two lives to fuel the __Līf__ to __Līf__ ritual. One as a price to the __Nornir Weaving Woman __for the intervention on behalf of the child's death, and the other Magic uses to stop the death from occurring. Thus, the __Avada Kedavra__ was rebounded from yourself and struck me instead._

_You saw her, didn't you; breaking the charm she wore that held Magic's promise to save you. She knew that her death would save you from your own. She truly believed that the ritual would work and the Nornir would spare you._

_What you should realize is that it was war, and many people die in war. James and Lily Potter had to die because Dumbledore brought them into this with that prophecy and convinced them he could keep them safe. I will not say I am sorry for your parents' deaths because I do not apologize to anyone. Saying that I am would be false, and thus cheapen their deaths. Your parents could have simply fled Britain and as long as they made a vow to me to never return or oppose me, I would have let them go. _

_Never let it be known that I am not merciful._

_But your parents foolishly stayed within a country that was quickly becoming mine, thinking they could stay hidden from me. I could not risk the prophecy being true, could not have all that I had worked for decades to accomplish be put in danger by a mere child._

_Since many of my Death Eaters failed me that night at the Ministry and are now incarcerated in Azkaban, I had to find some other way to view what transpired before my arrival in the atrium. The ones that had escaped did not possess the knowledge of the prophecy I required. Furthermore, my possession of your person was not as successful as I had hoped; I had to find some other way to supplement my lack of knowledge with your own._

_You had the only complete rendering of the events of that night so I used this quite unorthodox connection between us to make you recreate the events in your dreams. Your nightmares were an unavoidable side effect of this. This connection only allowed me to view certain portions of the memory and I was unable to retrieve the whole memory from you at one time, hence the dream's repetition for many days._

_What I had discovered was quite illuminating but hardly surprising. This ever-elusive prophecy is nothing but a lavish plot of Dumbledore's._

_Of course at first I had to make sure, so I stole away Dumbledore's little seer he keeps tucked away in her tower and took a look for myself._

_There is a certain oily taint left behind on a Seer when they give prophecies such as the one Dumbledore would have the world believe. This residue is caused by the Seer interfering with fate; it is a mark all true Seers wear for their transgressions. Our dear __Trelawney__ was not only absent of this mark but she possessed the memory of giving the prophecy._

_True Seers forget the moment that they give a prophecy because it is not themselves which are speaking but an outside entity forcing their words through the Seer's mouth. Even if a master Legilimens were to tear apart a Seer's mind, they would not find any memory of the event whatsoever._

_What I found was a rather curious interview for the Divination position that started with an Imperio and ended with a powerful Obliviate._

_The memory of the fake prophecy was rather blurred and riddled with holes, as if not of her own making. The mist is the effect of an Imperio and the holes are caused by the continued usage of memory charms to block the memory in the Seer's mind. Despite the efforts of the charms, the subconscious mind will try and fight off the Obliviation spells to discover whatever it was forced to forget._

_This is why memory charms are not best for permanent use. The charm must be reapplied every so often or the memory removed and placed in a pensive. Renewing memory charms has it draw backs. The person becomes vapid, forgets easily, and must be carefully watched over should they accidently spill their secrets._

_Why let __Trelawney__ keep the memory and not remove it entirely you might ask?_

_The giving of a true prophecy and the moment the prophecy completes itself are events marked by a large fluctuation in magic. The atmosphere because saturated in it. The orb's existence is tied to this natural magic, and is it this magic that allows the orb to continue to remain in the Hall of Prophecy long after the Seer is dead._

_Because the prophecy is a fake it is not tied to this excess magic, therefore Dumbledore had to find some other way to duplicate this effect. So he tied the orb to the magical core of the witch he used to give the prophecy. The spell linking the orb and magic had to have a linchpin, a common base. Thus he had to use the Imperius memory. Without the memory tied to the Seer's mind, the spell would unravel._

_A rather ingenious spell, really. As long as the witch stayed alive and did not forget the memory entirely, the orb would have continued to exist until Dumbledore deemed fit to get rid of it._

_._

Harry did not know anything about prophecies or Seers, but everything that Voldemort said made perfect sense. Trelawney was often forgetful and spacey, like she could not remember what she was doing or how she had got there. When he looked back on the memories of being Imperioed by the fake Moody in his fourth year they seemed to be covered in a fine mist, just as the letter said.

Furthermore, how could all the thousands of orbs within the Hall of Prophecy exist without some type magic keeping them going?

But thinking that the prophecy might be a fabrication made by Dumbledore was just mind-numbing and left him quite clueless as to what to feel.

Still, Voldemort was clever and could have easily contrived an explanation that to the uninformed seemed legitimate so Harry tried to hold strong to his belief in the man even as the edges to his grandfatherly figure were tarnishing more with every written word.

.

_The prophecy is a counterfeit; a mad scheme by Dumbledore to lure me to the Potter's or Longbottom's residence for whatever means. I do not believe Albus intended for the __Avada Kedavra__ to rebound and strike me as I am sure he was unaware of Lily's use of the Līf to Līf ritual._

_I suppose his original plan was for me to be caught unaware within the Potter's house by himself and his Order so they could valiantly dispose of me in a more public setting. Or there might have been extensive spell work around Gordic's Hollow to take out the village and myself within it. With Dumbledore you never can be too sure._

_All in all, I would be gone and he a hero of the people once more. But things did not go as he planned. You survived and his fake prophecy came true. He is no longer the mighty hero of this story but _you_, however, _are_. So he began to capitalize off this._

_He parades you around in front of the public as their Chosen One, their Savior. He tells them that you are the only one who can defeat the Dark Lord, and they hold you up on this golden pedestal for all to see. They demand that you fight me, deal me a swift death so they can return to their happy, everyday lives. But they are unwilling to take up this fight for themselves, and when you fall from the lofty heights they placed you, they ridicule and condemn you._

_Why do you let these cowards hide behind you? Worship you one moment and throw you away the next, like a tool that no longer serves its function? _

_You are only one thing to them, and when you serve your purpose what do you think will happen? After all these many years of them living in fear of powerful wizards and watching you grow, they – the Ministry - will begin to question your motives. You will be deemed a threat to the Ministry and its people. They will then throw you into Azkaban in fear that you are too much like the monster they made you destroy._

_Do not deny it. You can see it in their eyes. Behind that shinning, expectant hope, there is their dark, unguarded fear of what you might become. You are many things to them: their Savior, Golden Boy, Chosen One, but also the next Dark Lord, a crazed wizard, and a Parselmouth. To them you are too much of an unknown variable-a liability._

_But even as they condemn you, still you fight for them. Why? Why not let them fight for themselves, Potter? You are only a fifteen year old boy with a few years of school under his belt and they are trained wizards numbering in the thousands. Do you fight for them because of the prophecy or because they demand that you do? The prophecy is not real, so you can no longer use that as an excuse._

_Why not step back and let them fight their own battles? You have only been a part of the Magical world for a few years; my fight is not with you. They need to change, and the only way to do that is to force them. You know so little about this world Potter, so I do not expect you to understand what it is I and those who support me are fighting for. Our goals for this war are not what Dumbledore and the Light would have you believe._

_All I am asking you to do is step aside. Stop allowing them to use you as a scapegoat, and force them to face their own problems. This is my only offer. I would rather not have to kill you and lose the Potter heritage._

_Remove yourself from under Dumbledore's thumb and I will make sure that all my constituents know you are off limits. You will be freed from any and all social obligations to this war, and allowed to carry on your life as you see fit._

_But if you continue to stand and fight alongside Dumbledore, I will kill you —last of the Potters and the Lord Black or not. Dumbledore will die before this war has come to a completion. His death might as well be written in the stars of the night's sky. And if you stand in the way of that death, I will strike you down._

_I speak only the truth, a Slytherin truth, but the truth all the same. I have no reason to lie to you, Mister Potter. I will win this war whether you are fighting within it or standing aside from it._

_Just think about my offer and all that I have told you. Dumbledore is not the man you see in that grandfatherly mask he wears. You do not know him like I._

_With Regards,_

_Lord Voldemort_

(*) Slytherin Truth: An abridged version of the truth told in order to gain something in return.

Rituals, Dark magic, evil Dumbledores, fake prophecies, and betraying Ministries. If he had not been sitting down Harry was sure he would have collapsed to the floor in shock. This letter had shaken the very foundation he stood on and yet he could not think of anything to disprove the last few sentences in the letter that did not sound like anything other than foolish stubbornness.

Voldemort had no reason to lie to him and as far as Harry could tell had never lied to him before. Sure the man was evil, and yes he could twist a few things the man did or said around to make them lies, but at their very core they were truths, and Harry put a lot of value in truth. Voldemort may have used a 'Slytherin' truth but it was never a lie. Harry had survived his whole life at the Dursleys leaning on 'Slytherin' truths.

But if he agreed that Voldemort had no reason to lie then that meant he had to acknowledge that everything within the letter was true in some way, and that was hard to fathom.

Harry stood quickly from his bed, ignoring the pain in his muscles and the room tilting on its axis, and began pacing the cluttered room. His small gait and holey socks with one pinky toe peeking out from the side wore treads into the matted carpet as he chewed on his thumbnail and considered the implications of Voldemort's peace offering.

If the letter was true then Dumbledore faked the prophecy, his mother and father saved his life through a Dark Arts ritual, and he had no real reason to fight in a war he wanted nothing to do with.

This did not sit well with the ruby-crowned Gryffindor lion in Harry's head - that sounded very much like Ron – hissing with fury at the train of his thoughts. The beast roared that none of it could be true: Dumbledore would not fake the prophecy, his mother would not practice the Dark Arts, and the slimy bastard was just trying to confuse him. He was messing with his head to just try and talk him out of the war. It demanded that he find some way to get the letter to Dumbledore, or better yet, write the snake-faced git back and tell him that his plans would never work, that the Light was going to be victorious, and that Albus was a great and noble man.

The golden furred King of Beasts paced relentlessly in his mind, with the Gryffindor coat of arms, over laid by a great red "P" showing proudly on its side. It became enraged at the thought of Harry questioning the Headmaster: raking its deadly claws down Harry's nerves, thrashing at his memories, and deafening his thoughts with its roars. It bellowed the greatness of Dumbledore. Dumbledore was a mighty man, gentle leader, great protector of all that was light; the man could do no wrong.

Harry let out a pained cry and fell heavily to his bony knees, thin hands clutching at his head and his eyes screwing shut. He was immobilized by the pain of the lion's rampage through his mind and he soon tumbled to his side, tears flowing from his eyes and lungs gasping for breath as begged the beast to stop.

Bright, red blood began weeping from the scar on his forehead, down across his face and eyes like a river. Harry subconsciously noted that the wound would have been screaming in pain could he feel anything over the agony in his head.

Harry could feel the strain quickly mounting a precipice and did not think he would come out sane on the other side. He cried out in his mind for help, unable to control his convulsing vocal-chords to speak, hoping against hope someone or something would help him before he blacked out.

.

…xXx…

.

Unadulterated pain seized his mind as the usually quite connection between him and the boy flared up beyond the control of the lesser Occlumency shields he kept there. He could feel something crawling along the connection, a powerful mind magic entwined within a vicious rage ripping its way across the boy's mind and trying to invade his own. His infinite curiosity was piqued as he could feel Potter withering in pain and mentally screaming across the bridge for someone to help him.

Staring down at the endless amounts of missives that needed to be attended to and the scrolls of spell work concerning the Ministry's wards scattered about his desk, Voldemort knew he would be unable to get any work completed with the irritating affliction distracting him.

Focusing on the emerald green mist at the back of his mindscape, the Dark Lord slipped his consciousness along the bridge and towards Harry Potter's mind; curious to see how the powerful magics he could feel affected the boy's mind.

.

.

**AN: Please Review**

**Recommend Reading**: Featherlight Taction by Ssjrice

The sensation of touch is one that is taken for granted, but for those who are trapped in a harsh war, the act of taction can result in the revelation of one's own true face. Quite literally. VoldemortHarry. SLASH. HBP compliant.

One of the best HP/LV stories I have ever read! The two are kept very much in character, with a unique circumstance bringing them together and a very believable relationship between them. You will find yourself reading this story again and again. Apparently the story will be written because the author has returned from a few years break and decided she could do better. I can't wait!


	4. Battles Fought and Battles Lost

**Disclaimer**: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Too Have Fallen**

**Battles Fought and Battles Lost**

_I once knew a noble friend that would never turn me astray…_

.

Harry had never thought very much of the creature, always figured it was a harmless figment of his imagination.

It had first showed up when the Hat was placed on his eleven year-old head, and throughout all his trials and adventures it had been there. Always whispering to him what a true Gryffindor would do and what the Headmaster would praise him for. Harry did not know the first thing about being a true Gryffindor and therefore listened to its questionable advice; even if it went against what he truly wanted to do, because that was what he was suppose to be: Gryffindor's Golden Boy.

Its form had always been somewhat the same, that of a golden lion - a full mane and an arrogant swagger- but over the years, ornaments had been added to its bright visage. The golden, ruby-encrusted crown it bore proudly on its head came after he killed Slytherin's ancient basilisk. The Gryffindor coat of arms bearing the scarlet "P" appeared after he became victor of the Tri-wizard Tournament, and the lion's form seemed to double in size every year.

Never did he once think the mischievous creature was capable of causing him pain, but as he lay prone on the ground, writhing in pain, Harry second guessed that notion. The enraged lion spat and growled in its fury, thrashing against barren trees and raking deadly claws down their trunks. With each heated attack Harry could feel his metaphysical body convulsing but he was too busy screaming for help to notice.

Suddenly the lion wavered in its movements, turning its head from side to side as if attentively listening to its surroundings.

Whatever it was trying to pick up, it failed in doing so because the large cat became more agitated, growling at every shadow and jerking in random directions that it thought held its prey. Stalking around the small, desolate grove, and swiping its massive paws into shadowy enclaves, the lion grew frustrated, its roaring pitches and fury causing trauma to Harry's mindscape.

While the King of Beasts' back was turned, out of the dark, endless corner in Harry's mind - the one place the haughty lion feared to tread - streaked a dark, trailing comet. The cloaked silhouette raced towards the aggravated creature, leaving streams of black, shifting smoke in its wake.

Harry barely had time to set his eyes on its form before it collided into the lion, throwing the behemoth several feet away into the gnarled underbrush. The powerful collision between the two forces staggered the once noble beast and knocked the shadows that shrouded the unknown entity free, causing its true shape to be unveiled.

An obsidian panther now stood guarded in its place. Hissing threateningly at the downed lion, it stood on four powerful legs which were each adorned with a deadly row of claws. Silver, glowing runes were patterned on its dark coat, painting a striking contrast along the valleys of its hide. With its triangular ears pinned back, its thick fur bristled, and its body crouched low, the panther carefully circled the lion, watching it in calculated wary for its next move.

Upon recovering from the tackle, the King of Beasts set furious, golden eyes on its attacker – its wide pupils thinning down to slits - and roared out a challenge. This was its territory it boomed; nothing would take the boy from the mighty Gryffindor lion.

With its threat made, the massive beast attacked the smaller animal, its brash nature insuring itself of an easy victory over the slighter creature. But what the panther lacked in bulk it made up in speed and grace.

The two soon became a shifting blur of contrasting fur, massive paws, and gleaming teeth; they tumbled through the grey mist and crashed into the black trees that made up Harry's untrained mind. Hit after hit the figments went at the other: a rake down the side, a deep gouge on an unprotected neck, and a quick swipe across the face. Thick fur went flying only to disintegrate into the air before touching the ground. The battle scene was accompanied by hissing growls and deafening roars. What had once been a small grassy grove with a few thin trees was now a scarred battlefield.

The larger cat was clearly built for stamina; it could take the damage but it was clumsy and looked more like a bumbling circus-clown compared to that of the panther. But when the Gryffindor lion managed to land hits with its immense paws, it was a powerful enough blow to stagger the other. Yet, the lithesome fighter was built for stealth and agility, noticeably missing the lion's large muscular armature, and it made up for this disadvantage with speed and the experience in combat that the lion obviously lacked. It seemed as if the panther was toying with the other, dancing just out of its reach to study how it would react. Skillfully cutting away at it and watching its every move as if it was vivisecting the burly creature.

Suddenly the panther changed its stance: body crouching down low to the ground, haunches coiling tight like springs, and its tail flicking back and forth. The rash lion, seeing its opponent finally standing still, decided on an all-out attack and leapt with its maw gapping, rows of serrated teeth exposed, and forelegs outstretched - claws fully extended.

Springing to the side, the pitch-furred animal promptly moved and brought out one clawed appendage, raking long talons down the length of the golden beast's side just as the lion sailed past.

Dropping to the ground heavily, the lion staggered from its reckless leap. It fell to its injured side and bellowed out its pain, red blood spilling onto the ground only to turn black and flake off into the air and float away like ash.

Not giving its opponent time to recover, the panther leapt onto the broad tawny back, knocked the flashy crown from the lion's furry head, and started to viciously attack the unguarded face of the King. A deadly claw gouged into the larger cat's right eye had the injured creature wailing, thrashing its body side to side, and blood streaming down its face from the deep wound.

Dealing sufficient trauma, the panther removed itself from the beast and landed before Harry's paralyzed form in the mindscape. The lion clamored to its quivering feet, pitifully roared at the victorious panther, and turned tail and ran into the thick foliage and mist that surrounded Harry's mind: the fog closing up like a zipper as it passed.

With heaving breaths the dark predator turned its head and looked down at Harry from over a furry shoulder. Harry could only stare up at the great creature from his horizontal position on the floor now that they were alone. Its midnight fur was disheveled - in some places missing entirely - its defined flanks rising and falling with rapid breaths were covered in sweat, and its lithe body was trembling with leftover adrenaline from the fight. It was magnificent, right down to the ruby flints it had for eyes.

A rough snort brought Harry out of his daze. He watched as the panther looked out towards the direction the cowardly lion had fled and then turned its attention to the forgotten crown that had come to rest a few feet away.

The crown of mighty kings was no more; in its stead was a sickening wreath for the damned. What was once a brilliant gold was now a pallor like that of old bone. Garish rubies that had adorned the crown's center were now a putrid, dark indigo, with a swirling abyss in the center of the largest gem. The band emitted a mauve miasma into the air around it, bringing forth a horrid stench of decay that choked the air. The tainted presence of the objected blackened the ground around it; like a cancerous cell the rot spread slowly outwards, ever widening its circumference.

With wide, frightened eyes, Harry tried in vain to move away before the necrosis could reach him. The closer it crept the more definition the withering mist took. He stared in horror as gangly, smoke-like arms with sharp talons took shape and reached out to his prone form as if they wanted to claw into his flesh. The wailing moans of many different voices pierced his ears but making out what their words was difficult due to so many screaming at once. He was paralyzed with fear and his vision narrowed down to that of only the hands of death reaching out to him.

A quick swipe from the panther's paws and the mist framing the appendages billowed out like smoke. With its corporeal-like form destroy, the putrid fog shrunk back towards the grizzly crown, but still the malignant mass grew wider.

Uncoordinated jerks of his muscles were all Harry could muster as he willed his body to retreat. Fearfully he turned pleading eyes towards the large mammal, silently asking it to move him away before the black filth touched him.

Looking down at him with an amused glint in its scarlet eyes, the ebony creature took the back of Harry's large shirt into its maw and with a strong flick of its great head, tossed him farther away into the destroyed grove.

Harry slapped hard against the ground on his left side, his momentum sending him airborne once more like a skipping stone. He came back down again heavily, rolling over and over with thin limbs flailing about. He continued to skid in this way across the ground until he came to a bewildering stop on his injured side. He lay there, head feeling topsy-turvy, stomach somewhere in his throat, and his breathing labored as he tried to gather his wits. Definitely not the nicest thing to do to someone but he had ask the cat for assistance. Not like it could pick him up with its paws.

'Still didn't have to throw me so hard,'thought Harry as green, befuddled eyes peered out from their lids and tried to focus on the form of the panther. It took much blinking and screwing his eyes shut to get a good look at what it was doing. From what the boy could see, it was dragging one of its claws along the ground like it was scratching at something.

'Dear Merlin please tell me it's not about to use my mind as a litter-box.' Being eye level with the floor, Harry could not make out whatever the large cat had set out to accomplish. Having only seen Mrs. Figg's cats scratch at the ground like that, it was the only possible conclusion his muddled mind could make.

Feeling the darkness of unconsciousness taking hold, Harry took one last look at the panther and passed out; hoping that when he awoke this would all have been a strange dream.

…

Startled awoke by a hissing growl somewhere near him, Harry peered dazedly around to see what woke him. He noticed that he was still sprawled out on the hard-packed soil of the grove he guessed was his mind, understandably confused since he had only been here a few times before and only by accident.

It all came back to him rather quickly: the rampage the lion went on, the panther that showed up and fought the lion, the panther winning, and the pale crown oozing a purple mist towards him.

Jolting quickly, Harry wiggled his head and shoulders until he was staring at the spot where he remembered the crown resting. It was still there, still sickly in appearance and corroding all around it. Harry did not know what it was, why it was here in his mind, or how it got here but anything that looked as demonic as it did, was not a healthy something to just have lying around. He wanted it gone at any cost.

A movement out of his peripheral vision caught his attention and he struggled to turn his head in its direction. Not being able to see clearly, Harry endeavored to sit up. However long he was unconscious for had evidently been enough time for him to regain some control of his muscles. They were stiff, uncoordinated, and trembling with aftershocks of pain but working well enough to get him seated.

Drawing in a shaky breath, Harry looked over towards the shadows that he noticed the movement within. Staring back at him was the ruby eyes of the mysterious panther. It lay elegantly draped on its side within the sparse shade of a wrinkled tree, watching him. The raven-haired teen was rather curious as to why it was still here or how it got here to begin with. Harry had only known the lion to be within this space. Sometimes there was a garden snake but it did not hold such a corporal form like that of the lion, and it only appeared a few times when an important decision was made, only to be silenced by the larger beast's claws.

Sliding nimbly to its feet, the obsidian figment stretched out lazily, digging deep furrows into the soil beneath it with each rake of its claws. After giving a hissing yawn and a quick shake of its umbra body to shake lose anything that might have clung to its thick coat, it glanced over in Harry's direction, locking its scarlet eyes with his own emerald. It stared at him with a human-like intelligence swirling in its slit-pupil eyes, as if it were gauging him. Staring so intently, Harry swore it could see his every fault, deed, or blemish on his soul.

Memories of his years trapped at the Dursley's, their abuse and hatred of him began to swirl within the mist of the grove around them. His years at Hogwarts, moments with his friends, good and bad, flickered silently on the ground as if played by an old movie projector. His most treasured memories and that of the times he spent within the darkness of the cupboard danced along the trunks and leafless boughs of the nearby trees.

All his pains, hopes, and concerns. Every moment he spent wishing for something more or to be someone else, every jealous glance, hateful word, or lost chance. Time after time he spent questioning whether the magical world was any better than that of the muggle. Everything, about who he truly was – what he wanted - that he had buried so deep, all lay bare at the creature's feet.

The lost youth could not keep eye contact with such a piercing look and turned his head quickly away, staring down at his thin fingers tangled tightly in the shirt he wore. With eye contact broken the ghostly images slowly melted away and all became still. Seeing this, the panther took a threatening step closer and let out a dangerous hiss. Flinching, Harry took the reprimand for what it was and brought his misty eyes back up, staring at the creature's mouth; not wanting to meet its eyes and feel so immensely exposed before it again.

The dark hunter stalked closer to him once it had regained his attention. With lithe steps it began to slowly circle around him. Searching him, weighing his worth, and Harry hoped he did not come up found wanting.

When the large cat circled around a few laps, it approached his back, where it stopped. Harry could still feel its intense stare and dared not move, even if having such a predator at his unprotected back unnerved him.

He so badly wanted to run - pelt head first into the thick fog as fast as his injured metaphysical body could carry him and hopefully find his way out. It was his mind after all, surely there had to be some way. But the teen knew from being the prey of "Harry-Hunting" that running always made it worse. It always made the hunter that much more excited when they caught you.

Harry flinched yet again when he felt the jungle cat's whiskered muzzle at his thin neck. A gust of moist breath along his spine had him hunching forward to get away. Another low growl had his body still once more but he could not stop the slight trembling of his pale limbs. A slight pressure at the top of his spine and a little more moist air had Harry confused out of his mind as to what the cat was doing.

His unasked questions were soon answered when a quick jerk had his shirt trapped in the pits of his arms and the shirt collar chokingly tight at his neck. Another jerk had him suspended in air before the shirt painfully came loose, scraping against his face and rubbing harshly at the tender skin of his arms like rug burn. Without anything to hold him up, he flopped ungracefully back to the solid ground again, landing hard on his hands and folded knees - sans one shirt.

Dumbfounded for a second Harry did not even notice at first he was missing an article of clothing. Forgetting his fear for the moment, he turned around to ask what the hell the cat thought it was doing.

He got as far as opening his mouth, preparing to unleash a scolding not unlike those of one Molly Weasley before snapping it shut again in trepidation when he saw the fury burning in red eyes, thinking he had in some way upset the creature. But the mutinous eyes were not staring at him but at his back.

Harry's fear and anger quickly turned to shame as he thought about what the panther saw displayed along his back: a road map to his years in the caring, loving hands of the Dursleys.

Long rope-like scars crisscrossed every which way, some years old, acquired when he was but five; others more resent from nights spent under Vernon's tender mercies. A protruding spine with each vertebra looked as if they could burst from his skin at any moment like some sci-fi horror film, and his ribs not too far behind. Bruises of many different shapes, sizes, and macabre colors painted his pale skin. All accompanied by lattice work of thin cuts, varying degrees of burns, and puncture wounds from nameless sharp, pointy objects.

It had been one of Harry's dreams the moment he learned of magical healing to have the evidence of his abuse purged from his body before anyone could see. To Harry the scars were a testament to what he had survived, but that knowledge did not help having to look at them every day in the mirror. The first chance he got, Harry searched the library for away to hide them from his roommates and team members. He knew they would ask question he could not answer.

Until now no one had really ever acknowledged them, not even Madame Pomfrey or other members of the staff. He would be just returning from the Dursleys and not have time to apply the glamour, or sometimes when he would be so magically exhausted the spells would falter and dissipate. The teacher or student would stare right at the healing scars on his arms or the indicative purple outlines of large handprints around his slender throat and not even see them. Not that he thought much of it or questioned why it happened, it was accomplishing just what he wanted: for no one to notice.

But now he could not hide the scars from the furious beast that stood rigidly behind him. This knowledge made the raven-haired boy curl into himself protectively, hoping to hide himself from its petrifying stare. Harry brought his arms tight around his concaved waist in an effort to hide the abuse that decorated his chest and arms, and hunched further over his folded legs. He tucked his face in the valley created by his knobby knees and screwed his eyes shut, waiting for the panther to find him to pitiful and leave.

The two figments remained still for long moments, both seemingly lost in the rolling sea of their own thoughts. Hypersensitive towards his surroundings, Harry drew in a quick breath when he heard the quiet shuffle of paws drawn against loose dirt and the shifting of clothe behind him. So worked up by his fear the teen jumped, gasping in shock, when he felt the cool, light weight of his shirt drop on top of his bowed head and along his exposed back.

Dumbfounded, Harry lay hidden beneath the veil of his shirt, trying to gain control of his rapid breathing. With his heart still beating a sputtering tattoo against his chest, he peeked one green eye out from under the drape to locate the enigmatic creature.

The panther stood several feet away, sleek head turned and furry ears pinned back, staring intently at the malignant crown now wrapped in a cocoon of dense, purple fog. With one last red-eyed glance into the fog, towards the direction the lion had fled, it gracefully padded over to the dark enclave from which it originated and dispersed into the shadows - leaving Harry alone once more.

Highly confused the teenager rolled over onto his back, disturbing the dirt around him, and stared into the overcast sky.

Green eyes reflected the brooding dark clouds above - clouds that promised rain, and Harry thought that at the moment, the cool shock of rain on his heated skin would be a welcomed relief. With all that had just happened he did not even know where to begin to try and untangle himself from the web of confusion he wandered into. With the recent additions of a raging Gryffindor lion somewhere in his mind, a perplexing panther savior, and a disease ridden crown to an already overwhelming list of questions about Voldemort's letter, Harry was ready to just call it quits for today. There was only so much one person could take in a span of twenty-four hours before it just became too much.

Harry breathed out a deep, exhausted sigh just as the first drops of rain began to sprinkle the ground. The light thud of sporadic raindrops hitting the dry dirt quickly became a quiet waterfall as the heavy clouds opened up above him.

Tired eyes shuttering closed, Harry drew in a deep breath of the water soaked air. He had always loved the rain. It reminded him so much of magic. A life giving force, a cherished gift to those who needed it, or a destructive weapon that could quickly sweep away all that you held dear.

Hearing the lulling voice of the rain begin its song, Harry decided to rest. He rolled his weary head to the side, slowly opened foggy eyes, and glanced towards the black, endless hollow the panther disappeared into. Tomorrow, or whenever it was that he awoke from this place. He would deal with it all tomorrow, with the only person he trusted with matters such as these: the wise and faithful Hedwig.

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…xXx…

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The loud slamming of a door was what brought Harry back to the consciousness of the real world and a mind splitting headache was what held him there. The floor was shaking and he did not know why. All he could hear was a rhythmic, muffled noise that beat along with the pounding in his head and played havoc on his splayed senses.

Trying to move his head proved to be an unwise decision as the equilibrium in his inner ear shifted and he felt as if he was tumbling down the rabbit hole. Stomach swimming with nausea, fingers biting into the carpet to keep him steady, and mind lost in its pain, Harry lay still once more.

His first glimpse of his surroundings was cut short by the blinding light pouring in through his still open window stabbing at his poor abused eyes. After moments of nursing his injured retinas from behind the protective lids that covered them, the boy tried once more to look around, slowly getting his eyes used to the bright morning light.

He found himself unsurprisingly lying face first on the floor of his bedroom, but what had him curious was why the floor was wet. With his glasses lying askew across the bridge of his nose, Harry could only clearly make out half of the light-brown stain he found his face lying in. When his eyes proved ineffective, he took a quick sniff… and got stale juice all up his nose.

Harry let out a deep groan about how this day was turning out to be. Not only was Hagrid doing the tango with Lady Maxime on his poor head but he was laying face first in a cheap can of spilt beef and barley soup.

Sighing, Harry closed his eyes once more, tuning out the booming vibrations and the degrading fact he was lying in yesterday's dinner. Unable to think clearly, he gathered his magic together to try and do something with his aching head. He could feel the trickle of his sluggish magic answer his call and wind itself around his mind, soothing the blinding pain. His magic was too overtaxed from repairing the rest of his body to take all the pain away but Harry was grateful for what it did accomplish, but something was different. After a curious inspection, Harry could feel that something had changed. Today, despite its battered state, it was working faster, more efficient, and with little direction from him.

Harry wanted to continue to explore the novel feeling but a sharp, hunger pain from his dwindling stomach brought the underage wizard's attention back to more important matters, like finally getting something to eat.

Looking around from his prone position, Harry spotted what looked to be an opened can of food by the door, and quickly set his sights on it.

Having painfully made his way to the cream-colored wall, he grabbed the dented can of beans and with trembling fingers began to fish the slimy, little vegetables out of the can. The first few beans drew a breathy moan from his raw throat. He had not eaten in days and even the tasteless beans were heaven to his empty belly. After the first few shoveled bites, he slowed down, not wanting to overtax his shriveled stomach and cause cramps or vomiting.

Finally done taking care of his body's more pressing needs, Harry recognized the loud noise he was hearing as Dudley's stereo system. What he could not understand was why it was so loud that it was nearly shaking the house. Neither Vernon nor Petunia had ever allowed Dudley to have it this loud before. Vernon simply hated the "foreigner's" music of today's youth and Petunia said it was unsightly to the neighbors. So that had to mean they were both out of the house for the moment.

Harry could not recall what day it was but it had to be somewhere around the weekend. As long as he had been here for the summer, the two had never been out of the house at the same time. Petunia was making a Herculean effort at avoiding her near permanently drunk husband by doing all her shopping/socializing when the man was home, and Vernon was always at work, at a bar, or passed out on the couch.

The house suddenly went silent and Harry shuffled his body around to press his ear against the dirty wall to try and hear anything going on outside his prison. Rowdy laugher and rambunctious movement coming from down the hall was all he could make out. The voices became louder with the jarring sound of a door being thrown open and the quick, energetic steps of many individuals passing by his door and thudding down the wooden staircase. From behind the hollow wall it sounded like a herd of wild animals migrating by.

"Com'on Big D, times a wast'in." An unpleasant voice shouted from downstairs.

Harry knew that unmistakable voice. That voice had haunted his childhood right along with his cousin. It was Piers Polkiss, one of Dudley's oldest friends. Piers had the rather unfortunate luck of having a face only a mother could love, the tall, gangly body structure of a lamppost, and the high pitched voice of a prepubescent choir boy. The teen lacked any kind of personality and original thought, which made him a perfect accomplice for Dudley. The two had become fast friends in grade school and bonded over their shared love to bully others.

"Hold on, mum said I had to feed and water the freak while they were gone." Dudley's thunderous voice was right above Harry's ear, causing him to jump back from the wall with the unexpected noise.

Rubbing his wounded ear, Harry could hear the many locks on his door becoming undone. He quickly scrambled back across the crusty carpet with his arms and the heels of his feet, not wanting to get hit with the flying door. Just barely making it out of the way in time, Dudley swung open the door with a powerful swing hoping to catch Harry unaware.

His cousin towered over him from his position on the floor, and Harry tried to keep track of all of Dudley's movements, just in case the wrestler decided to launch a surprise attack.

"Mum and Dad are gone for the weekend freak and won't be back until Tuesday. Mum said I had to stay here and watch over you incase more freaks came to get you, or something, but there is a concert happening Saturday and I wouldn't miss it for your sorry arse. Here, dinner! Better make'em last." Dudley grunted; then dropped a grocery bag he was holding in his hand, causing a few cans and water bottles to spill out onto the floor.

An evil smile bloomed across Dudley's rotund face as he carelessly tossed the extra-large slushie cup he had been drinking from into Harry's lap, causing the frosty wet contents to splatter all over the smaller male.

Harry gasped, flailing back, knocking the plastic cup to the carpet as he tried to quickly wipe the cold, blue drink off but only managing to spread the sticky concoction further. Now a wet, sputtering mess, Harry glared up at his guffawing cousin. He was sure he did not look too intimidating with blue slush dripping from his disheveled hair and face, or how his large shirt now stuck to his thin chest, outlining his malnourished state, but he hoped the shear hate he had for his cousin reflected in his eyes.

Dudley's large frame only rocked harder in his laugher as he leaned against the doorframe to keep from falling down, completely ignoring the state of his cousin and the anger the pitiful creature had for him. "You're too easy sometimes freak," Dudley huffed out between peals of laughter.

After finally calming down, he looked down at Harry with a spiteful grin and said, "Me and the boys won't be back until late Monday, so no one will be here to let you out. Enjoy the cup!" He then took a step back out into the floral-patterned hallway, wrapped one beefy hand around the doorknob, and with a mighty tug, slammed the door closed against the frame.

The jarring impact shook the foundations of the house, sending pictures crashing to the floor, windows rattling, and Harry's head reeling. The smaller boy fell to his side with a gasp, clutching at his head and deafened eardrums. His head was not healed enough to take that kind of abuse.

Recovering from his ringing ears, Harry heard multiple bouts of laughter from downstairs, the front door close, and a blaringly loud car peel out from the driveway a little later.

Sticky all over, Harry pushed himself off the wet floor and plopped down on his bottom, his arms resting on his knee, and his head bowed. It was just now dawning on him that he was going to be locked in this room for the entire weekend, covered in slushie mix with no way to wash it off, and only a cup to use the bathroom in. He did not know when his relatives would return because he did not know if it was Thursday or Friday.

Throwing his frustrated thoughts to the side, Harry decided to deal with the mess sticking to his skin.

An impromptu bath was taken using one water bottle and a few semi-clean shirts, taking extra to wash the soup and blood off his face that had dried to an abrasive crust on his skin. Clothed in a red football shirt that was continuously slipping off one slender shoulder - much to the wearers chagrin - faded jeans and underwear that had to be folded-over several times to stay on bony hips, the teen decided no more stalling the; he had much to think about and many questions that needed answering.

The only person he trusted to help was Hedwig. So the Gryffindor chose to make a nest with all the food, water, and a blanket from his bed under the window by her cage in the corner. He gathered all the scattered cans and bottles, and hoped to Merlin, that by some miracle, Dudley had the foresight to provide him with a can opener, or he would not need to think over Voldemort's proposal because he would starve to death in this room.

Sitting against the hard wall with Hedwig beside him, Harry brought out the letter and placed it in front of him. This is where he should start; he knew that… he just did not know how. How did one go about rationalizing the words of a mad man? Words that could be true, but ones he did not want to believe. Words that had shaken many beliefs he based his life on. His mother, Dumbledore, and the prophecy, all according to the letter were in some way different then what he had been told all these years.

"OK girl, I'm sure by now you're dying to know what it says." A small smile spread across his face as his faithful companion gave him a stern, affirmative hoot.

To begin with, Harry told her about the dreams Voldemort had sent him, the one from the night the Dark Lord attacked Gordic's Hollow and the Department of Mysteries. He could tell that the motherly bird did not approve of the man's ruthless actions, if the angry screech and fluttering of wings were anything to go by.

Harry read Voldemort's words out to the owl in a low voice: as if he spoke any louder, someone might hear him. He paused at certain portions to glance over at Hedwig to see what her reaction was, or lack thereof when it came to some things. She nodded slowly when it came to the _Līf to Līf_ ritual and Lily, became agitated when the prophecy and Dumbledore's supposed meddling was unveiled, and puffed out her feathers when the letter mentioned the public's reaction towards him, but she solemnly nodded her agreement to the matter.

"First things first: do you believe he is telling the truth? Can we trust him Hedwig? Voldemort could be lying, probably is, but why? Why write a letter if he could have easily tracked the owl here and killed me." Pausing for a second, Harry let out a distressed sigh and brought one arm up to his chest, clenching the threadbare shirt together over his quivering heart.

"I have this unexplainable feeling that he is telling the truth but I don't know how. The man is an evil, rampaging psychopath, w-who has been trying to kill me for years! How can I believe a word he says? It's stupid for me to trust him… But I do," the teen whispered. "I do believe what he says…but I need to know that I'm not just going crazy here and looking for an easy way out. I need to know someone else agrees." Harry's free hand threaded through his disheveled hair, staring down at the letter in dismay.

All was silent for a moment as the two occupants of Number Four stared at each other, one in mounting distress and the other in silent contemplation. Slowly the smaller figure stared up at her master, looking him straight into his distraught, emerald eyes, and nodded.

"You believe he is telling the truth?" Harry whispered breathlessly, only to, yet again receive a slow nod in reply. A relieved sigh for his sanity blew through him. Hedwig was the best judge of character Harry knew. She just seemed to know when someone was hiding something or did not have the best intentions for him. She had always stared distrustfully at Quirrell or the fake Moody when she flew into the Great Hall with mail, and pecked at his charmed Valentine's Day mail.

"I'm sorry girl, I shouldn't doubt you now. Not when you have proven to be right all these times before. If you believe he is telling the truth, then whatever this feeling is must be right, somehow." Harry mumbled quietly into the air as his rearranged himself in a more comfortable position. Picking up the letter once more, Harry decided on a course of action.

"Start from the least disastrous and work our way down?" Harry said shrugging, a sad smile tugging at his lips as he glanced at the bird with dismal, green-eyes. Hedwig's white plumed head only bobbed up and down in silent agreement.

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**AN: Please Review**

**Recommending Reading: **

Alone Together by Esama

Of course Harry had thought about it, how cool it would've been to be able to transform into a dragon, but… not like this. Creature!Harry, time and reality travel, eventually Slash. Crossover with Temeraire.

Harry Potter, slash, and dragons, what more could you ask for? Don't let the creature!Harry tag fool you, this is in no way your ordinary creature feature. If you are unfamiliar with Temeraire like I was, all you need is a quick Google search to read up on the first book. The author does a fabulous of blending the two stories together and sometimes you will find yourself forgetting it's a crossover. Esama promises us a massive fic and so far she has delivered, with 100k words already posted we are just now being introduced to the other partner in the pairing.


	5. Truths Gleaned By Fire's Light

**Disclaimer**: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**AN:** I would like to thank everyone that has reviewed, favorited, and alerted my story. And a big thank you to Estalita11 for beta-ing.

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**Too Have Fallen**

**Truths Gleaned By Fire's Light**

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Large flesh-covered tomes and scrolls of parchment littered every available surface within the shadowy study. Chairs of umber hues were strategically arranged near the low burning hearth, towering bay-windows displayed the twilight forest beyond, and an archaic, earthen basin sat idle on the lone writing desk, a ghostly image floating about in its shimmering waters.

Dark-stained bookshelves, a repertory of the most obscure and forbidden of all wizarding knowledge lined the walls, stretching from the hard-wood floors to the enchanted night's sky portrayed on the ceiling. The titles of the volumes ranged from the darkest of arts to the oldest of the world's legends, making the collection an invaluable prize to any appreciative scholar. Protection runes, deterrent wards, and the Dark's most nefarious curses spelled out a foreboding warning to any and all that would tread upon this space unwelcomed, or foolishly dared to take what was not rightfully theirs.

It was within this hidden enclave that Severus Snape found himself summoned to early in the predawn hours of Thursday. The dancing shadows thrown by the fire and the tilting stacks of overflowing books made his quest to find the one who had called him here a near impossible task within the literary labyrinth. If it had been any other, Severus would have cursed the man for waking him at such an ungodly hour and forcing the Potions Master to track them down. It was in the very back in the far-reaching library masquerading as a study that Severus found his quarry staring distantly into the flames of a nearby fireplace.

Severus knew not to disturb the Dark Lord when he was in states such as this. You were liable to find yourself cursed into insanity for such a brainless act. While the man's body was present, his consciousness was off in far-distant places… places Severus could only ponder about. The Dark Lord's body was known to react on a defensive reflex when interrupted while he seemingly sat idle, infamous yew wand rapidly firing off curses before the man's mind caught up to his actions. To any other the transition might have been hard to detect, but to the diligent spy, the faint, sliver rings outlining the red irises alluded to Voldemort's meditative states.

So despite Severus' exhaustion, he stood patiently awaiting his master's acknowledgement while revising the expanding list of potions he needed to brew for Hogwarts' infirmary and the materials he would require to complete them. While starting to tally the ingredients of his private stores, Severus finally emerged from the waters of his own thoughts to notice a pair of clear, red eyes quietly observing his form from over long, steepled fingers.

Somewhat embarrassed to be caught unaware, although his face showed no sign of this, the Potions Master bowed low before the only man he highly respected but greatly feared. He withstood the scrutinizing gaze and waited for the Dark Lord to inform him why he had been summoned.

His infinite patience was soon rewarded.

"Severus, tell me what you think of this," a low baritone voice remarked while one hand nonchalantly waved towards the old pensive poised on the far corner of the desk.

Needing no further instruction and with curiosity piqued at the rare occasion of the offered glimpse into the man's mind, Severus promptly stepped up to the stone basin and submerged his head beneath the sliver-tinted waters inside.

Minutes passed as the Head of Slytherin took in the perplexing scene of a fighting pair of felines within a cloudy copse the spy assumed was an immature mindscape of some sort. One tussling mammal Severus recognized as his lord's animagnus form and the other a rather ostentatious lion. A Gryffindor lion if the coat of arms pinned to its golden hide was any indication.

But why would his lord be mentally dueling a lion of all things?

That question was soon answered by the battered and prone form of one Harry Potter lying a short distance away from the furious battle. A few missing pieces fell together to complete a portion of the puzzle and Severus had his answer on whose mind it was, and a budding suspicion on what the strange lion entailed.

Upon this revelation, all other questions ceased as the Master Occlumens focused his attention on what he knew the Dark Lord had sent him here to witness. Not the feline fray, but the surrounding area and the distortions of the mindscape only a highly trained eye could see. The thick mist confining the grove, the deep gashes imbedded in all the trees, and the foreign lion figment with all its pageantry.

These were only the abnormalities that lay benignly on the surface, only those with which Severus could discern in the immediate area and after such a short span of watching. There was no telling what lay hidden beyond the shifting fog that obscured his view.

Severus tallied the anomalies like a mental abacus, not liking his findings in the least. For they all pointed to an unhealthy and highly tampered-with mind, with only one such man wielding the power and knowledge to do such things: Albus Dumbledore.

With the superficial scene observed to the highest of his current capabilities, Severus returned his attention to the brawl. With every hit and gauge onto the encompassing landscape, the Occlumens could see the damage done to the boy's mind escalating. The lion in particular drew the man's attention. It was too highly functioning to be a simply spell, it learned too quickly, and withstood too many of his Lord's blows to be normal. Closer inspection proved impossible with the quick movements of the two creatures but Severus believed he had the basics of the spell settled when it happened.

The golden crown, the devise Severus believed to be the metaphysical representation of the controlling variable of the spell's complex infrastructure, rolled to a wobbling stop at his booted feet and fell over to the ground with a metallic plink. The significance of the event was lost on the three other inhabitants of the memory, but the Potions Master could only watch in morbid fascination as the crown, barely recovered from its journey, began its macabre transformation. Noble hues twisted to deathly complexions and flashy, ruby gems morphed into unsettling abyssal crystals. He quickly traced his steps backwards as he edged away from the sprawling patch of rot that began to drip from the wreath, his mind blaring warnings not to touch the unknown even if it was just a memory.

Severus' awareness was spilt on keeping track of the growing mark and watching the lion scamper away with one last look at the glaring panther. Attentive eyes noticed how easily the encumbering mist separated for the fleeing lion and how the opening quickly zipped back closed once it had lumbered past.

It was with no little amusement that the Head of Slytherin watched as his Lord tossed the silent, yet pleading Gryffindor further away from the crown, and seeing the youngest Potter sail through the air and come to a painful finish, brought a vindictive smirk to the Dark man's lips.

The teen quickly passed into unconsciousness as the man watched his lord begin forming a ward around the crown's expanding circumference to try and halt its growth. Severus knew that this was only a temporary measure. Only with further analysis of the spell in its entirety could they begin to understand what it was that had been implanted into the boy's mind and if there was any chance of successfully removing it. Preventative procedures would need to be taken to stem further contamination if indeed the Dark Lord was implying what Severus believed he was. Why else would the man fight off the lion and risk exposing the extent of their mental connection to the boy?

Severus knew that only meant one thing: he would have to resume Occlumency lessons with Potter. The man fervently cursed the fates that brought him to this point in life.

He stood back and silently observed as the large cat finished with little preamble and took to investigating the surrounding landscape

Suddenly the memory skipped ahead and Severus watched as his Lord used Legilimency on the boy. Memories paraded about the misty scene and the man found himself twisting and turning, his robes swirling around his form, wide, dark eyes swerving to and fro to catch all that was displayed. Some images of lighter times, others of secreted darkness, hidden deeply away for no other eyes to witness.

Severus stood idle as the years of abuse branded into the boy's body was unveiled from beneath the large shirt he wore, and he looked upon the markings he knew his own flesh bore. Enraged, yet saddened, that he had failed in his oath to protect Lily's child and that he was so grievously wrong about his family's attitude towards Potter.

As the memory dispersed and Severus backed away from the squalling waters, he knew he had made a mistake and simply apologizing to the jaded youth would engender no sympathy. He would have to approach this the Slytherin way and subtly work his way into the boy's favor. Potter would need sound advice from a knowledgeable source now that he had unknowingly caught the Dark Lord's eye.

Dark eyes slowly rose to meet those of his Master as his plan of action was affirmed. Knowing his Lord would wait until he gave his full assessment on the matter before speaking, Severus began a retelling of his analysis.

"I believe the lion figment and its accompaniment to be foreign to Potter's mind and to be the cause of the abnormalities within. The creature itself seems to be a control type spell not unlike that of compulsion - its body being the foundation, the armor a deterrent from detection and protection from removal, and the crown the spell's controlling parameters. While the spell remained intact I theorize it worked to regulate the boy's actions and maybe even suppress his mental functions. Now that it has been displaced, its function has been impaired, and only with regular Legilimency scans will we be able to learn of any unforeseen consequences of this action.

"The lion itself could go rogue now that it has no ruling body, and as for the crown, I speculate it will continue to metastasize beyond the ward you incased it within, infecting Potter's mind as it did the area surrounding it." The last part was quietly intoned as to test the waters for the Dark Lord's reaction. It was he that had knocked the crown from the lion's head after all. Powerful lords did not appreciate their subordinates pointing out their mistakes; Severus had learned that tidbit after many years of tip-toeing around one and studiously avoiding another.

Voldemort, however, showed no outward signs of disapproval at the Potions Master's last statement, and only tipped his head in acknowledgement to the man's report. The room once again returned to silence, with only the crackling fire supplying background noise to the tense atmosphere.

Severus fell into his own thoughts. It was entirely unneeded for him to say who he suspected implanted the spell. They both knew only one other man capable of the feat, the question was why. Why go through all the trouble or risk so much? The old man's actions were even lost to that of the spy. Always twisting and changing after you thought you finally had the man pinned down.

A loud pop from the fire had Severus surfacing to the real world to see the Dark Lord elegantly rise from his chair and approach the black and white checkered board near the window. A moonlight-stained chess game was in play, with both sides strategically scattered about the field. One lone, white pawn stood bravely farther out than all its cowardly brethren, close to crossing the middle divide and into the black army's domain. It lay seemingly uncontested as a flagship to the white army, but any knowledgeable chess player could see the black rook waiting in the wings from across the board, poised to strike should the pawn encroach too close.

The Dark Lord deftly plucked the errant ivory piece from the board and it was sent expertly somersaulting between pianist fingers like a certain yew wand was known to do. The Potions Master took in the remainder of the board; without the white pawn spearheading its side's campaign, no other chessmen dared come close enough to pose a threat to the emerging black army.

"If I may, my lord?" The softly spoken question was finished only after receiving a nod of Voldemort's head to continue. "What are your intentions regarding the Potter boy?" Amused, red eyes glanced up to meet questioning obsidian and a cruel smirk spread across thin lips. Severus watched as the innocent pawn was slowly placed before the dark king like a sacrificial offering and all its pure color bleed from its visage leaving the piece black.

"Dumbledore has not been acting within the rules of our engagement, Severus. While I, for one, have never had much appreciation for playing fair, this divergence on his part cannot be overlooked. He is unwittingly alienating his weapon and soon, should he not take care, he will lose it." Pale digits once again retrieved a piece from its white square, and Severus observed as the white queen was brought before the Dark Lord's face to be curiously examined.

"Certain important facts regarding the youngest Potter and myself have come to my attention, and I have offered him safe retreat from this war. Should he be wise enough to seize it, the boy will no longer be a concern of mine. With his puppet beyond reach, the true king will soon be made to come out from hiding within the queen's wake, and our genuine enemy will be revealed to us." With this the polished, white queen was flicked into the glowing fire, its flames dramatically flailing out and swallowing the chiseled stone piece whole.

Now the ivory king stood opposite the black ruler and its army with no surrounding support from its fellow chessmen. Severus was momentarily lost from his lord's explanation. Was Potter not the white pawn who Voldemort demonstrated turning sides in the war by changing its color to black? If so, then who was the queen and this "true enemy" that was hiding behind it? Did the Dark Lord mean that Dumbledore was the queen and was acting only as a front to the real enemy?

A disturbing thought crept into the Potions Master's thoughts as he inspected the lone white king closer, trying to see the unknown threat as he knew his Lord saw it. Despite its solidarity, the king seemed invulnerable from all attack. The shadows swaying at the piece's base, so unnatural that they could not be explained away as a trick of the light. Its smooth, blank surface a metaphorical representation that something or someone powerful lay shrouded underneath and its royal crown ready to call its men to arms. Could the Dark Lord not even know the identity of this concealed foe?

"Tell me, what has Dumbledore been up to since last me met?" Dark, fine robes gently shifting, the Dark Lord turned from the game and gestured for Severus to join him by the fire. The clinking sound of glass and the soft, liquid ambience of pouring drinks accompanied him as he made his way over to the usual guest chairs in front of the hearth. While they were in no way as grand as the one the Dark Lord claimed as his own, they were of antiquity and an honor high for those who were allowed to sit in them while within their lord's private study.

"The Headmaster has been continually absent from school grounds since the commencement of summer holidays, leaving much of his duties to Minerva and the Ministry in an uproar trying to get in touch with him. He returns at odd hours of the nights, only to be found missing once more come dawn. He is gone for days at a time, a week at his longest," Severus said as he graciously accepted a drink of aged firewhiskey from his host and respectfully waited for the Dark Lord to be seated before taking a seat of his own. After a sip of the hypnotic, amber liquor that he savored momentarily on his tongue, he continued.

"I had heard rumors from the portraits that Dumbledore could be found in the deepest bowels of the castle, incoherently muttering to himself, and when I attempted to follow him one evening, I was impeded by a spell of shadows. When I managed to disabled the ward I could find no traces of the Headmaster or evidence of what he might have been doing within the long abandoned halls. I am now barred access to the lower regions of Hogwarts." If he had been any lesser of a man, Severus would have scoffed at the unsubtly of the move. This obviously stated that the Headmaster had something to hide and knew that the Potions Master's curiosity was piqued.

"I find I am not the only one keeping a close eye on his wanderings. Fawkes, Dumbledore's familiar, has been constantly at his side as of late." This drew a slight nod from the Dark Lord who continued gazing into the crackling fire.

"Albus came to me the day before, looking haggard and ill at ease with having to seek my assistance. He wished for me to use my more _unsavory_ connections to help him locate the whereabouts or any information pertaining to an item he had been pursuing. He admitted to having been unable to find any hints to its location and only light references to the object in numerous historical texts. Dumbledore was terribly reluctant to inform me as to what it was he was searching for. Only after an hour of dancing around the topic did I managed to get the dodgy man to tell me that it was a stone. And only after I threatened to inform Minerva he had been neglecting his duties for such an asinine reason as a rock, did he admit that it was no ordinary stone, but the Gem of Korinthos."

Red eyes snapped from the glowing hearth and pierced Severus' own, narrowing in contemplation, but otherwise the man showed no other outward signs of being affected by the last statement. To any other it might have seemed like idle curiosity, however, the master spy was not so easily fooled.

"Show me," was the quiet command Severus received seconds before a spiking pressure besieged the outer edges of his Occlumency shields, rapidly dismantling his defenses. The dark-haired man quickly brought the aforementioned memory to the surface of his mind and opened a narrow passage for the Dark Lord to view the scene.

Seconds ticked by as the men silently stared at one another, the calm broken shortly after it began as Voldemort returned his sight back to the fire, swirling the remaining liquid in his crystal tumbler absently.

Severus discreetly vanished the blood pooling from his nose and took a long swig of whiskey from the glass trembling in his unsteady hands, hoping to stave the headache he could feel building at his temples. The Dark Lord's mental invasions were hardly ever pleasant, even for a Master Occlumens such as himself. But this had been beyond the pain the man was known to inflict while ripping into the minds of his subordinates. Whatever it was that Dumbledore was searching for must be of particular interest for his Lord to be so damaging in his haste to gather information.

"Do you know of the stone, my lord?" Severus neutrally asked, trying to seem as if he could care less one way or another, even though his Slytherin curiosity was baying at the chance to learn something about the elusive stone that intrigued both worldly lords.

The steep, burning sensation devouring the inked skin of his left forearm was all the indication Severus needed to tell him he had stepped over the line. That he dared asked for information before it was freely given to him by his Lord.

Tonic-doused hair slipped forward from its usual position tucked behind the man's ears as Severus unsteadily rose from his chair and kneeled on the hard wood floor. The building pressure in the atmosphere choked his body in reprimand, driving his trembling body further to the floor as he fought his body's insistence to flee and panic from being unable to draw breath. Pale fingers reached forward and clenched tight around the thick material of his Master's robe, bringing the finely woven Gytrash thread to thin, blue-tinted lips. The supplicated man gasped as he placed a kiss against its resilient surface, only to release the fabric soon after to shift back into a kneeling position.

Burning eyes bore down on the umber crown of his head from their elevated height in the antique, wingback chair, and Severus swore the gaze carried a hefty weight. The Potions Master stared past the dancing, black spots in his vision to focus on the pale, bare feet before him, trying to brook the consuming pain his body was under. Disimprisonment came suddenly and the man collapsed forwards on hands and knees, steadily taking in air to replace that which had been denied him moments before.

"Forgive me, my lord." The wheezing, breathy words were a pale comparison to the half-blood's usual intimidating timbre.

Pale fingers lightly placed beneath Severus' chin - surprisingly warm considering the cold-hearted immortal they belonged to – and tipped his bowed head slowly upwards to come face to face with his Lord. Voldemort, or Tom Marvolo Riddle as his younger, mortal self might have answered to, had an indiscernible age to his facial features; an age the master spy had never been able to rightfully discern.

Severus logically knew the man before him to be approaching seventy this very year. No longer the frightening monster born from the alchemy ritual one year ago but now a man well in his prime, forty by wizarding years or passing thirty by muggle standards. Barely recognizable crows-feet branching off the far corners of his intense stare and light, stress lines etched into the broad forehead were the only physical imperfections that marred the otherwise blemish free canvas.

It was the twin burning suns that would forever give away the man's true age no matter how young the flesh might appear. The Dark Lord's eyes, like the hypnotizing gaze of a deadly serpent, played on the unwitting onlooker's curiosity, drawing them in only to spring the trap and have them bare all their deepest secrets before him. Ancient knowledge, long lost even to the oldest of pureblood houses and a superiority that was well earned by any measure swirled in their depths like bottomless, scarlet pools.

Identical red stars that appeared far older than the seven decades their bearer had lived, maybe closer to hundreds of years or thousands of varying lives. Old souls the last pureblood Prince referred to them as. Truly beings that deserved one's respect but also their undying pity, though she never told her only son why.

The feather-light brush of a thumb against his shallow cheeks snapped Severus from the dark trail of his own thoughts. He truly was absentminded this day: caught unaware not only once, but twice, and to have spoken out of turn.

"Your thoughts betray you my old friend. Stand." Severus quickly obeyed, retreating from his kneeling position and silently stood watch beside the chair he had previously been seated in.

"There will be little information regarding the Stone of Korinthos for Dumbledore to find. A few notations of its existence throughout history, wizarding or muggle, and no amount of searching on both your parts will amend that. Like many powerful magical objects its true name or current whereabouts are a carefully guarded secret. This does not mean, however, should one be determined enough, they would be unable to devise some way to find it, especially a man of Dumbledore's caliber. The stone's purpose or magical aptitude has been scored from the annals in hopes that it may be forgotten, but nothing is truly ever forgotten.

"Go, return to Hogwarts and keep a close eye on the man's wanderings. Should he ask you again for any clues you may have gathered, inform him you are still searching. Make it not apparent you had this discussion with me. I will send for you shortly in the coming week to discuss the anomaly within Potter's mind should he be wise enough to accept my offer. " With one last look in Severus' direction the Dark Lord dismissed him with a turn of his head. Back into the low burning hearth the scarlet glance slid.

Long strides quickly carried the weary man from the isolated study deep within the unplottable location of the Dark's stronghold. By the pale, early morning light, Severus Apparated back to the dew covered expanse of Hogwarts' front lawn. He strode through the towering gates of the school front, past the grand, wooden doors of the entrance, and down into the familiar stone halls of the chilled dungeons. All thoughts revolved around a stiff drink, a pain reducing potion strong enough to fell a weaker man, and the blessed sleep he had been denied. Any others were carefully locked away for closer examination at a more decent hour.

.

xXx

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'Scratch… scratch, scratch, scratch… scrape.'

"No, no that is not right. More of a curve here… Yes! Yes, almost, there. Soon now…" The hunched figure mumbled lowly, speaking just above a breathy whisper – the condensation of his breath displaying his every word. The cold, winter like chills of the farthest reaches of Hogwarts' underbelly bit into the man's deathly pale skin and through the ragged clothing he wore but it appeared that he paid it no heed.

The metal, quill-like tool in his bleeding hand worked furiously, scribbling indecipherable lines on the stone floor that sapped his failing strength with every twist of his hands. The room bore no light of any kind to guide his sight except the green glow that lovingly clung to the figure's left ring-finger. Wispy, emerald clouds floated up from the large stone's surface that sat malevolently within the golden band's clutches. Venomous-green, spectral hands caressed the man's gaunt features with a lover's touch and fueled his manic fervor.

'Rrrriiiiippppp…'

'Plink… plink plink plink'

"T-there finished. See, look at we have done Ariana. I am sorry, s-so sorry. Forgive me my dear sister, Gellert, James, Lily… G-gellert…"

The quaking figure brought the ring closer to his face to better look upon the images that swirled within the misty expanse. The eerie green glow reflected off the lenses of his broken glasses and seeped into the once ocean-blue irises that now were a lifeless teal. His breath misted in front of him, fogging its surface.

"Yes, yes, soon everything will be as it should… But why must so many be sacrificed...?" A flare of light from the man's finger momentarily ignited the room in beryl flames, throwing the room into sudden contrast and revealing what the shadows had previously hidden as the hunched-over man shrunk back from his out stretched hand. Dripping black lines of varying degrees of thickness, length, and shape were engraved inches deep into the grey stones of Hogwarts. They crisscrossed and wove together to form an intricate, yet macabre, spider's web along the surrounding walls, floor, and ceiling. The empty containers and bloodless corpses of mutilated creatures lay scattered around the four corners of the room. Their blood was collected into large inkpots and clay jars to provide writing material for the immense project.

"No, no wait, do not leave me…! I will, I promised I see would this through for you all! Yes, for the greater good." The elderly man brought the ring closer as the light died back down, forcing the metal hard against his forehead to try and drown out the other voices there. Sweat slick, white hair and the papery skin of his face became victims of the still wet blood that coated every inch his hands and forearms.

With so many screaming, whispering, crying, and laughing at once it created a deafening cacophony in his mind. He began to slowly rock back and forth, pleading to the ring to take them all away. The strongest voice of all was demanding there was something wrong, he should not be here, or doing this but it was swiftly snuffed out by the wailing chorus of other voices.

With one last pulse of green, the man withdrew the jewelry from his head and laid his bloody palms along the outer edges of the array he had completed moments before. Drawing what little magic and life force his exhausted body could muster, he forced the pale light into the lines of his web and further into the ground. Deep down past the school's foundations and into the living vein he knew ran beneath.

Black bled into red as the spell came alive. The ancient wood and stone of Hogwarts wailed and trembled at the poisonous magic being performed in her womb. The burning braziers that had continuously lit her halls since the founder's era flickered and grew cold, seldom ventured staircases crumbled into derelict stone, and doors to long ago abandoned classrooms became forever sealed shut. High above the school's wooden entrance, Rowena Ravenclaw's treasured pendulum ceased to swing.

Dust and pebbles fell from above like hail and snow, yet still, the man continued. As the last line turned the color of fresh spilt blood the ritual was completed and the time-tested castle gave one last painful groan and tremor, falling silent.

Magically depleted and his body unable to further sustain his weight, the figure collapsed against the glowing floor. He reverently stroked the simmering lines - the fruits of his labor - and whispered to the ring sitting benignly in front of his face. Darkness came swiftly in the arms of his loved ones and with a smile stretched across his lips, he gratefully joined them.

.

After hours of searching for a way around the sprawling walls of shadows that had continuously blocked his path and magic, Fawkes finally slipped into the deeper depths of the castle looking for his wayward charge. Like a blaze he sped down the deserted and hallways and past rooms that had not been put to use in centuries. With no sconces burning or windows to provide light, the flames of his feathers could only illuminate the small area around him and as he passed, the supernatural darkness of the corridors swallowed the halls back in his wake.

He was here for the one task Magic had assigned to him: watch Albus Dumbledore for any signs that he might have fallen too far from her reach, and on this night he knew he had gravely failed his Lady.

Black eyes spotted the elderly man not too far from the dungeon's back entrance, feebly trying to make his way to higher ground with only the flickering light of a weak _Lumos_ to guide his path. The bird could smell blood and disease clinging to the man like a second skin but no signs of the former were present. Albus looked to be in good shape, if not for the tired limp in his step and obviously being under the effects of magical exhaustion. Clothes were all in order if not somewhat wrinkled, long white beard and white hair were matted with sweat but that too, was to be expected.

The bird landed gently on the man's shoulder and took a closer look at his wizard. Eyes clear but weary, face displaying genuine confusion, and body temperature a little below normal due to prolong exposure to the chilled lower regions. Nothing suggesting that the man might have been doing anything other than taking a leisurely stroll down here and lost his way.

"Fawkes my old friend, what are we doing down here? I cannot seem to remember coming down here or why? I was just in my office preparing some papers to send to the Ministry and Minerva had just stopped for some delightful tea Severus got me last year. But then… darkness. I am sorry to ask this of you, but could you flash me to my personal chambers? I do not think I can make it on my own." The man tiredly mumbled, flexing his overly stiff fingers and feeling older than he had in decades.

Fawkes did as the wizard asked, grievously clinging to the man's shoulder in thought that the meeting with the Duty-Headmaster had been the evening before, and prepared to transport the frail man to his quarters high atop the Headmaster's tower.

"I fear that something has gone terribly wrong my friend. Hogwarts… she has grown silent. She no longer speaks to me. I believe… I have failed." Albus whispered painfully, white brows furrowing and the phoenix let out a sad warble at the shared thought.

Just as the bird gathered the flames to Apparate the pair safely away, the aged man jerked around and stared off into the darkened direction he had come from. Narrowed eyes tried to penetrate the concealing shadows that thrived just beyond the outer reaches of Fawkes' light, searching for the familiar, yet foreign voice calling his name. Clasping the faintly glowing ring closer to his suddenly thundering heart, Albus heard the chilling whisper come once more before the flames carried him away.

"_Duuuuummmbledoorrrrre"_

.

Hundreds of miles away, unnatural winds swept in through a magically sealed window with a bang, throwing scrolls to the floor and sending lose parchment flying. The multiple breezes then joined together as one and promptly smothered the fire that had been heartily burning in the hearth, sending smoke and ash spewing into the air.

Chaos managed and message delivered, the wind died down with a last gentle flutter to the room's only occupant's hair, and all fell still once more.

The man stood from his chair and walked the short distance to the fireplace, bare feet tracking through the soot-covered floor and his robe clearing a path in his wake. Not even glowing coals remained within, only the crumbling ashes of the once burning logs. Sitting on top of the grey mound, like it was a royal throne, was the chess-piece he threw within the fire not an hour past. Yet it was hardly recognizable as the whole, purely-white chiseled piece as before.

Unlike the polished black chessmen of the board, the queen was now blackened to a char by prolong exposure to the flames. Splintering cracks along its structure displayed small areas where the black had found a way underneath, but a large fault-line fissure down the piece's center exposed the still white marble inside.

Being a long practitioner of every aspect magic offered, even Divination, Voldemort found the omen troubling. It was much like the Grim fortune-tellers feared to see in their crystal balls and damp tealeaves. He turned and approached the still open window displaying the hours of dawn just crawling past the expanse of dark forest outside. The blazing colors seemed to set fire to the ancient woods and the man had to shield his eyes from the momentary sun-flare.

Looking out over the valley towards the rising sun he could feel something had drastically changed while the new moon had been absent from the sky the night before. A taint lay far across from him. Across the checkered landscape, towards the direction of Hogwarts and the magically potent land the castle lay nestled in. The white king had made his move, and what exactly that play had been Voldemort remained blind to.

"Albus, what have you done?"

.

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**AN: Please Review**

**Recommending Reading: **

Secunda Fortuna by Angelwarrior1

He had survived the final battle, but he carried something with him. Fearing the reaction the wizarding world would have, Harry Potter left and traveled to Gotham City… Slash. BW/HP.

This story is mpreg but Harry is a virgin… did that catch your attention? Secunda is a lighthearted story about a pregnant Harry living in Gotham City and his interactions with Bruce. Don't worry, Batman is kept well in character and so are Gotham's more infamous denizens.

For anyone who reads this section I also have some recommended watching for you. Google "Ralph Fiennes was reading Harry x Voldemort fanfic on a talk show." Dreams do come true…


	6. Sweet Dreams

**Disclaimer**: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**AN: **Thank you again for your reviews, alerts, and favorites.

I am not sure if it's become apparent or not but I intend for this is be a lengthy story. I know some of you guys want to see some interaction between Harry and Voldemort and I promise it is coming. I, personally, do not believe in throwing the two together with nothing to base their relationship on and I do not intend for it to be love at first sight. This is an Adventure/Drama story so the plot is just as important as the relationship between the pairing.

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**Too Have Fallen**

**Sweet Dreams**

**.**

Within the smallest room of Number Four, Harry sat for hours mentally wadding through the twisting labyrinth that had built up around the proposed truce sent to him by the Dark Lord. With its false paths and towering walls, hours were spent turning thoughts around and around in his head like a puzzle piece that just did not fit because he could not see the whole picture. And he had only a Snowy Owl and his own conscious to guide him through as he tried desperately to avoid some of the heavier topics that shadowed him like the hulking Minotaur in a maze.

Topics ranging from his mother: a member of the Order of the Phoenix, a Gryffindor, and a muggleborn using a supposed Dark Arts ritual to save his life; and James, the Ministry's top Auror, letting her. It was an unfamiliar ritual that Harry could only guess was exclusively practiced by Dark purebloods. So how then did Lily learn of it?

The ritual itself and its origins was an even larger concern. The letter claimed that the rite belonged to the Old Ways, what Dumbledore and the Ministry called Dark Magic. But if the spell depended on two willing sacrifices from the parents to save their child's life, how could that be considered Dark? How was this Old Ways ritual any different than the willing sacrifice Lily was said to have performed for him that Halloween night in Dumbledore's rendition of events?

Frankly the ritual made more sense to Harry than Dumbledore's tale. Voldemort was right - how many other mothers had sacrificed themselves for their children for the child to perish anyway? Why should he be so special in that regard?

The Old Ways just had to be some other abstract magic the Ministry or Dumbledore did not approve of for some reason or another. So it was deemed Dark Magic, and with that stigma attached no respectable wizard would practice it. With this black mark, it would have been purged from spell books and historical text, and over the years forgotten by certain families willing to believe the damning allegations.

'_Does that automatically make the ritual Dark just because one side of magic was intelligent enough to see through the ruse and still practiced the Old Ways as not to be deprived of their culture, while the other grew ignorant and chose to willingly forget its existence?'_ a small voice whispered in his mind. And Harry knew the answer he wished to give but it still felt somewhat wrong to go against all he had been taught at Hogwarts. Admitting this small truth was admitting Dumbledore's logic was flawed.

'_The Headmaster has been withholding vital information from you all these years and even engineered your death at the hands of the Dark Lord because of a false prophecy, yet you still defend him. How is your logic not flawed? Enlighten me; what would it take to break your foolish dependency on Dumbledore?_' What was once a faint whisper on the outer edges of his consciousness bloomed into a smooth voice speaking in a low tone as if sitting on the carpet alongside him.

"The truth," Harry whispered aloud, "from his own lips or an act of magic itself." Staring forward resolutely, the teen was unaware of the bead of blood forging a path down from his scar.

'_Ah, I see. Your Gryffindor loyalty will be your death one day, child._' A shift in the air beside him and the barely discernible touch of cool fingers on his heated forehead broke Harry from his trance. Slapping one hand to the tingling area, he was met with nothing but his own skin and pain from the hit.

Letting out a frustrated groan, the teen slumped forward with his small hands buried in his dark hair, pulling at the roots in aggravation. Harry vowed to learn Occlumency when he was finally released from this place. There were too many voices, creatures, and Dark Lords running amok in his mind as of late. His lackluster knowledge of the mental magic was not sufficient enough at the moment to help him, so he pushed the affair aside to return to the topic before the unwanted conversation. But try as he might, neglecting the truth in the man's words was impossible and it overshadowed his every thought.

Being pretty much stuck in a quandary on the whole 'Dark ritual' issue, Harry decided to once again seek advice from Hedwig. Wise golden-eyes turned to him in infinite patience while she listened closely as the small teen spoke about his thoughts concerning the ritual and the Old Ways. The matter of his mother's use of a possibly dark ritual did not even phase the bird. She only gave him a reprimanding glare at his question whether the Old Ways were something harmful and if Dumbledore was correct in disposing of them.

And with that, the matter was pretty much set in a more favorable light for Harry. If his parents had deemed it acceptable to cast on their one year old son, if pureblood families – families that held blood-ties above all else - used it to protect their own children, and Hedwig judged it safe, then Old Way magic must not be _Dark_ Magic. Surely the Headmaster just had to be misinformed or had some other reason to rally against them. But then again, maybe Harry was missing some important information as well?

Hedwig only bounced up and down excitedly when the orphan mentioned wanting to understand more of whatever this powerful magic was that Lily studied. He might learn something about the traditions his grandparents or older ancestors practiced. If nothing else, he felt that it could bring him closer to his mother whom he knew very little about.

Harry had tales of epic adventures, pranks gone wrong, and countless teenage courtships about James' heydays at Hogwarts. Sirius had even shared stories about James' childhood in letters that he sent over the years. But he knew almost nothing about Lily's days at Hogwarts, and only knew what venomous lies Petunia had told him about their childhood. He knew that Snape had been her closest friend and that had ended rather disastrously in their seventh year. She became an Unspeakable shortly after graduating, was spectacular in Charms, and a member of the Order later in life. But that was all the youngest Potter knew.

Harry was thrown from his gloomy thoughts as he suddenly sprang forward and away from the wall when something impacted with his head and proceeded to tumble into his lap.

Awkwardly scrambling away from what he believed could only be an attack of some kind from the window, Harry came to a panicky rest several feet away. While clutching a bent golf club he had ripped from a junk pile by his knee in two hands, Harry promptly turned to confront his attacker…

…only to find the Evil Owl hissing in what could only be birdie-laughter at his undignified scurry across the floor.

Seeing that there was no eminent attack, only a visit from the sadistic bird, the Gryffindor chucked the silver club back into the rolling piles of trash. After he regained his dignity, Harry searched for whatever it was the dark owl saw fit to bestow upon his head. He hoped it was not bird feces. He really was not too fond on the notion of having to spend the rest of the weekend with it decorating his hair.

He found a small, brown feathered object lying innocently beside Hedwig's domain. It really should not have taken him so long to figure out what it was, but in his defense, Harry blamed it on his craptastic glasses and having the good fortune not to have many dead birds lying about too often.

The quick swat at his hair to dislodge anything real - or imagined - that the small, dead creature could have left behind in his sable hair was only met with another hissing laugh from the russet-tipped owl. Harry supposed whatever fool he had made of himself was worth it when he saw Hedwig bobbing up and down in silent mirth.

Sighing deeply, Harry got to his unsteady feet with a small smile on his face. Despite the rude nature of the bird, he could not help but feel grateful that it had once again returned with something suitable for Hedwig to eat.

"Thank you for gracing the unworthy with your presence, your majesty," Harry said sarcastically while dipping down into an over-exaggerated bow. He then swept the small plumed avian off the floor with Seeker-like reflexes and passed it through the feeding door of the bird cage to the patiently waiting owl inside. Harry could not stomach watching Hedwig daintily rip into the robin that had once been on his head, so he distracted himself by glaring at the stringent owl sitting outside his window.

He now knew who the owner of this particular bird was and they could not be more fitting for each other. Harry had never thought about the possibility of Voldemort owning an owl like a normal wizard. It just did not seem to fit the evil persona of the man.

Harry had always thought that whom-so-ever was unlucky enough to garner the attention of the Dark Lord would just be summoned through the Dark Mark or kidnapped off the street and brought before the man in whatever dank, cave-like structure Dark Lords inhabited these days. It had to be a cave, right? The man was an albino snake…

"Why am I thinking about this?" Harry said in a bemused whisper, shaking his head lightly – causing shoulder-length hair becoming even more tousled - to clear the unusual thoughts.

It didn't help.

"Maybe he lives in a hole in the ground? Wait; don't large snakes live in trees?" Harry's faced scrunched up in thought as he muttered the question aloud. The picture of a manically-grinning, white, scaly-faced Voldemort hanging out a pink tree-house window with a poncy Malfoy senior and scowling Snape at the bottom had Harry sputtering in horror at the train of his thoughts.

'What was in those carrots?' Harry fretfully reached down to check for an expiration date just to see if he could blame his disturbing thoughts on his chosen cuisine for the day. The stress must have been getting to him because the carrots were fortunately, or unfortunately, still within date.

With conflicting feelings of gratitude and envy rolling about his core, Harry watched as the Horned Owl gave a flick of its tail feathers and a high screech. Pumping its massive wings to gain altitude, it set off for the skies, presumably returning to its dark master.

Left alone once more, with nothing else to distract him, Harry paced the room a few times to work the kinks out of his stiff muscles and returned to his pallet by the wall where Hedwig was happily nursing a contented belly. She greeted him with a coo.

"He may be a prick, but if he continues to bring you food then he is alright by me. Just warn me next time, ok? I don't appreciate being pelted with small, dead animals," Harry said, chuckling as he ran fingers down molted plumes. The Snowy Owl only inclined her head in agreement with her master's request.

Settling down, laying on his side this time to give his poor, abused butt a break, Harry picked up the letter to continue his trek through either painful truths or dangerous lies. He was pretty much out of safe topics now. Voldemort's actions, the fake prophecy, Dumbledore, and being the wizarding world's whipping boy was all he had left. Not much at all…

…

Telling time was an impossibility for him within the walls of his small bedroom. The old alarm clock that had faithfully served him throughout the years had unfortunately stopped working sometime while he was away at Hogwarts and the Dursleys saw no reason to gift him with another. Judging by the color and angle of the shadows it seemed to be later in the evening, almost sundown.

Although having done nothing all day but think and put up with Dudley, Harry was exhausted emotionally and physically. He had barely touched the topic of Dumbledore's fake prophecy, Voldemort's proposal, and how badly he wanted to flee from this war before he decided to call a break, the episode earlier that morning with the Dark Lord almost completely forgotten except for the weight of his words acting as a backdrop to all of Harry's thoughts.

Breathing deeply and trying to ignore the building pressure in his lower abdomen, the teenager rigidly stood with disagreeable legs protesting the action and gazed out the only portal he had to the outside world. The various sounds of Privet Drive chimed to his ears, its soft melody relaxing his stiff muscles and bogged mind with its peaceful familiarity.

The stillness of his thoughts and emotions finally brought Harry's attention to a foreign presence floating within his mind. It felt nothing like the forceful burst of Legilimency from Snape or the blinding pain of Voldemort's over-zealous emotions. The soft brush of fingers over sensitive skin was what Harry would have likened this feeling too. It was a most curious and unfamiliar feeling to the teenager who could barely tolerate physical touch.

A sudden halt of its padding movements told Harry that whatever the sensation was, had noticed his attention on it and the bewildered teen stood perfectly still as he awaited the presence's reaction.

Harry felt no hostile intentions, only a grey, iron-like weight of determination surrounded by a burgundy cloud of curiosity. A wave of acknowledgement rolled forward and then the presence set out again weaving like a light mist through the teen's mind.

Now that Harry noticed it, he could not take his attention away from it. How had he not have noticed this before? It was a very slight but distinctive impression. He found his own curious awareness following it and the vague sense of ebony fur and graceful, padded feet came floating up from his subconscious as he tracked the gentle caress across his mindscape.

The presence poked around within his mind before coming to a stop at his more recent memories. His thoughts on Voldemort's truce, Dumbledore's treachery, and wanting to better understand the Old Ways flickered to life like an old, muggle carousel projector. The cloud of curiosity surrounding the entity thickened, almost tangible like a scarlet shroud, and a dark blue feeling of triumph now coiled deep within its emotions. Harry could almost feel a Cheshire Cat-like grin stretch over its face.

Harry was bewildered as to what the entity found so intriguing regarding these memories but whatever it was, it pleased the creature greatly. The young man could not help but revel in its foreign emotions as they seeped into his own, turning his own indignation into feelings of giddiness and making him feel alive after so many days of dark depression and boredom.

Spending a few more moments flipping back and forth through recent memories, the presence soon pulled away and floated towards the area where Harry's constant headaches originate from. No amount of rubbing or magical dampening could do away with the ingrained pain that bloomed from this place.

Whatever pleasant emotions the presence felt quickly vanished when it approached. Black, deep-seeded anger, venomous green disgust, and morbid purple curiosity cloaked the figure now as it circled something. Harry could not help but try and flee from the entity now. Its malevolent emotions were rising and the teen could feel his scar start to pulse with his every heartbeat.

Quickly the emotions were blanketed and all there was left was a vague sense of emptiness. Harry could barely feel the thing now, as it swiftly slid across his mind and disappeared.

But the damage had been done. Whatever the presence was, it had agitated the spot within his head greatly. What was once a manageable ache now turned into a flashing migraine. With his head pounding anew and weak limbs shaking, Harry staggered down the wall to his thin blanket on the floor. He had nothing to deal with the pain so the small teen curled up under his blanket to wait the pain out, hoping to fall asleep to quicken his ordeal.

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…xXx…

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He was wading through a thick mist now. Stumbling barefooted over catches along the ground he could not see and tripping at sudden inclines and declines in elevation. The towering column like structures that blocked his immediate path at times required a wide berth to maneuver around them as they were so large in circumference. The mist hampered his sight to nothing but a grey fog a few inches ahead of him and muffled his hearing so only the rapid beat of his heart could be heard. He felt nothing but the nip of the condensation on his skin and a pull urging him forward.

Harry gradually blundered his way forwards; his hands stuck out like divining rods in front of him, guiding his way from one giant obstacle to the next.

Shocking him out of his sensory deprivation, the feeling of his bare feet sliding over something leathery and wet, while at other times damp and soft slowly came to him. His questing hands then picked up the rough, segmented texture of the structures around him. The feeling was very familiar to him but without his sight it was hard to determine why. The rest of his body suddenly bloomed with the sensation of touch as he felt the irritating impression of wet, starch-laden cloth wrapped around him and something grabbing at whatever it was that he wore.

Slowly the cool, refreshing smells of the damp earth all around him crept up on his awareness. The raspy sounds of his rapid breathing came next, its tempo matching the beating of his heart, but so too, did that soon change. The sound of the wind gently whipping about in thousands of leaves - like the rolling tide of an ocean - joined the rhythm in his ears. The bowing and groaning of wood sent a chilling sensation down his spine as his fog-covered world slowly came into focus.

The root entangled ground at his feet appeared first, strewn with fallen dark emerald-colored leaves and inky green moss blanketing the surface of the roots and rocks. As the mist finally dispersed, Harry found himself leaning up against a massive tree. The shear height of the goliath sent the small wizard staggering back in slack-jawed awe as he tried to track the tree's trunk as it disappeared into the flickering canopy above.

Harry had never seen trees so tall. The Whomping Willow was impressive in height and girth but nothing compared to some of these giants. The rough sensation he had felt earlier was the rugged bark they bore as armor to protect themselves, and the groaning sound was the trees' lengthy branches dancing to and fro in the wind.

Leaves fell like snow to the ground, twining between the shafts of moonlight that randomly broke through the shifting canopy, giving an ethereal ambiance to this dark forest. It reminded him somewhat of the Forbidden Forest that stood alongside Hogwarts. But whereas the Forbidden Forest gave the feeling of danger and that travelers were unwelcomed, this unknown forest radiated strength and protection. The trees themselves seemed to whisper to Harry as he walked by. They wanted to draw him closer, for him to lay his weary body against their sides so they could impart to him their secrets and give his wanderings rest.

This was a haven, an unearthly place of magic he should not tread, but it was wrapped all around him, urging him onward. The pale moonlight whispered to him, told him he must go further.

Traveling deeper, Harry noticed that some of the gentle giants had even fallen over onto their sides. Snapped at the trunk as if the tree's weight had become far too great and a mighty wind had knocked them down. But in the open space where the giant once stood, sprang many saplings, racing towards the canopy as they fed off the nutrient rich soil from the decomposing wood. Soon one of the smaller trees would take the fallen one's place and with time grow as strong as the one that once towered there. It was an adept representation of the circle of life playing out in one of the world's oldest living life-forms.

All around him stood the dark – almost black - colored trees. They stood only as far apart as their entangling roots would allow, creating a maze-work of leaf ridden, mossy valleys and entwined root cliffs between them. Healthy and strong they stood united, an impenetrable force protecting all within the forest.

But as Harry wandered farther into the forest the trees began to thin and grow unhealthy. The ground became loose dirt and pebbles, barren soil too depleted of nutrients to support much life. The goliaths shrank in size with only a small number of them reaching the towering heights of the ones before. Their bark was pale in color compared to that of the dark hues sported by the more healthy trees.

Many of the trees here had fallen over. It seemed like they had been eaten from the inside out from a blackened rot festering at their base. Their jagged trunks stuck up from the molted ground like tombstones, completing the picture of the eerie graveyard this place so closely resembled. This was not a place where life flourished…maybe once long ago, but not anymore.

Beautiful dark emerald leaves no longer danced in this silent place. Here they barely clung to the twig-like branches of the infected trees and were painted in muted colors of fall. Brilliant reds were spotted with dirty browns and shinning golds freckled with black, all manner of once beautiful colors flawed in some way.

The wind did not sing a siren's song here either. It only kicked up loose dirt and deformed leaves, turning them in the air before dropping its burden elsewhere. What grass there was crunched and assaulted his bare feet, not unlike glass, as he walked over it. Only the moonlight still shown benevolently here. Giving a sense that even though it may look like a completely different world from the forest before, it was still the same place. That there was just something wrong in this land: some sickness deep within.

Harry was unexplainably drawn to this decaying place. The trees here cried out for him, no longer offering him strength and protection but begging him to protect them from the unseen force that strangled the very life from the ground.

Harry silently approached one of the more sickly looking trees and hesitantly laid the flat of his hand on the crumbling bark of the trunk. A quick flash of undeterminable images run havoc through his mind, the voices became louder, hundreds of thousands of them screaming and wailing within his ears. He quickly shrank back from the blighted tree, tripping over exposed roots and loose rocks, collapsing to his knees, and cradling his injured palm to his chest.

Bringing his burning hand close to his face for inspection, Harry noticed red blistering marks outlining his palm, like the burn marks Vernon had caused him by forcing him to touch a scalding pan once. From the very center of the most damaged area morphed a dark spot. Quickly black tendrils spread out from this spot like ink drops in water. It crept along his veins, drying the blood within, sucking out all the life from his flesh, and turning his arm to brittle clay.

A crippling, muscle deep pain, like nothing he had ever felt before, raced down his arm, preceding the rot as it festered beneath his skin. Harry watched, crying out in painful sobs, as his whole arm turned necrotic and his blackened fingers began to crumble away like ash, before being lifted away by the wind that furiously whipped his huddled form. But still he felt the rot growing into his chest, encroaching upon his heart, and smothering his breath…

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Back arching like a bow and his burning arm held out high above him, fingers curled inwards like claws, Harry awoke gasping for breath.

Images assaulted his mind and clouded his senses. The ordinary ceiling above him was overlaid by the decaying canopy of trees, and then a blur of emerald green swaying against a moonlit sky. He was lying on the dry, caked earth and then the threadbare fabric of his blanket. The crying, distressed hoots of Hedwig merged into the thousand different voices of the pleading trees. His mind could not separate itself from the dream and his body still felt as if the dark plague was entwining throughout his chest.

He was trapped and falling deeper into the abyss as his bronchial tubes constricted, impairing his breathing. Black spots danced across his swaying vision and quick, shallow breaths rocked his thin body while he thrashed back and forth.

The still sane part of his consciousness screamed at himself to just calm down and take a breath. He told himself that he was at the Dursleys, his arm was not crumbling away, and he could breathe if he just stopped panicking. But the more primal side of his mind had taken control and it was not relinquishing its grip. It was caught up in the fear, the pain, and helplessness he felt within the dream.

The blackness was eating him, devouring him like it had the trees. Stripping him of his life and magic, turning him into a withered husk, and he had to get away. He had to flee this decaying world and go back to the dark forest; only there was he safe. Run, run, RUN!

The teen did not stay within the waking world for long. Oxygen deprivation was taking its toll on the mind and body. With lips painted blue, green eyes wide and unseeing, his body gave one last desperate jerk to escape and Harry fell into unconsciousness once more. Fear lost its grip over the body, his tense muscle melted into a relaxed state causing his lungs to finally draw in a life saving breath.

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…xXx…

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Consciousness came to him in blurs of colors, aborted movements, and panting breaths. Groaning, Harry slid his arm weakly across the carpet to hide his dry, aching eyes in the fold of his elbow. Every inch of his body was complaining about something or another. His eyes were unhappy about being pried open, it felt as it Uncle Vernon was wallowing on his chest, and his muscle were just plain uncooperative. But by far the worse had to be the smell.

There was something whispering in the back of his sleep-addled mind that he was forgetting something. Something important had happened and he needed to wake up and protect himself. Searching for the memoires only brought up flashes of images, accompanied by pain and a spine chilling fear and his consciousness shrank back from whatever this memory was and tried to bury the threat deeper in his subconscious - protecting itself from the unknown.

Harry decided to leave whatever it was alone for now; focusing now on his still exhausted body. He shifted around to flex his stiff muscles and hopefully gain some distance away from whatever was producing the rancid odor.

The teen suddenly froze from the wet, scratchy sensation his jeans were causing his inner thigh. Thoughts of blood and disease sprang up from the panic muddled corner of his mind and black spots and decaying flesh besieged his thoughts.

Fearing the worst, Harry slowly brushed the pads of a few trembling fingers against his saturated jeans and brought them closer to his face to investigate. The small amount of lamplight slipping through the window showed nothing but a clear shimmer blanketing his fingertips. No red of blood or black of disease met his fearful eyes.

Breathing out a sigh of relief and berating himself for being so paranoid, he relaxed tense muscles, allowing his head to drop back to the floor and inhaled deeply through his nose.

Harry choked roughly on his inhaled breath and jerked his fingers away from his face. Whatever the horrid smell was, it now coated his fingers…

Suddenly going still, his mind cleared and all the pieces fell into place. The wet area in the crotch of his jeans, the stale, acidic smell, and why the insistent urge he had been feeling earlier to use the loo was no longer a concern. His faced glowed red with shame and humiliation. The mortification of knowing he had wet himself like a toddler had Harry lying stiffly on his back with his hands trembling in anger and clenched in tight fists at his sides. He could feel it now, up the small of his back and soaked into his clothes and the blanket he was lying on.

Harry rigidly sprang up from his position on the floor, head dancing with dizziness at his quick movements, causing him to topple over slightly. Balancing himself he started to rip off his soiled clothes in a fury. This was worse than the idea of having to use the damned slushie cup Dudley left him.

Blinking back tears of shame and frustration, all he could think about was soiling himself like a child, as he went about repeating the impromptu bathing session, his movements jerky and rash against the sensitive skin that had been lying in urine.

The rampant, negative emotions he had been neglecting all summer only made the task worse. When the smell that represented his shame blatantly refused to come out of his skin, Harry threw the still half-full water bottle across the room. The plastic crinkle sound the bottle made from impacting the wall was unexplainably not what he wanted. His anger flared up inside him from wanting something he could not understand. He wanted to destroy, maim something, break it like how broken he felt at the moment.

Looking around manically, Harry's hand dived towards a trash pile and brought up a broken toy truck. He tested its weight in his hand for a second before he chunked it at the far wall him all his might. The toy gave a satisfying crash as it collided with the wall, encouraging Harry to repeat the action.

Soon objects were flying about the room as he worked out his emotions.

His anger and rage at the Dursleys and all that their abuse and neglect became a bent golf club against a shattered television and toppling bookshelf. His insecurities about the war, his friends, his place in the wizarding world, and his future played out in the angry smashing of toys as he brought the club down, again and again, against the junk in his room. Things were broken repeatedly to smaller pieces as his thoughts about all that he had lost, his past mistakes, his immaturity, and fears fueled his destruction.

After an unknown amount of time had passed, Harry weakly stood gasping for breath as his rage slowly dispersed from his mind and the adrenalin drained from his weakened body. The tarnished club dropped from his trembling fingers as he defiantly tried to bring it down one last time. It connected with the carpet with a few muted thuds finalizing his tantrum.

Harry's whole body was shaking from exertion as the teen staggered over to a relatively clear spot by the wall and slid down its cool surface. He came to rest on the cream-colored floor and laid his head back against the wall with legs stretched out in front of him and arms limp at his sides. A numbing calm had taken the place of his out-of-control emotions and he felt detached from everything now.

Peering out from under half-lidded eyes through the crooked lenses of his glasses, Harry could not help but lightly chuckle at all the havoc he had wreaked upon his room. He had always wanted to do that but the fear of what his uncle would do to him had always stopped him. Vernon would have his hide when Petunia and he got back, but at the moment Harry could have cared less.

He felt better now, lighter in some way. It may have been a childish temper tantrum but he had needed it badly. The explosion within Dumbledore's office had only been the tip of the iceberg. He had been bottling up those emotions for far too long and they had been eating him up inside. It was either destroy his room while his relatives were away or hurt someone unintentionally when he could no longer contain his hurt, anger, and confusion.

Pain and aches, new and old, once again made themselves known now that the adrenaline had run its course through his system, but he was on cloud nine right now and they too, were barely a concern.

Harry chuckled once more when he looked down to discover he had gone through that entire episode completely starkers. A blush covered his cheeks as he thought about what a fool he must have looked like, waving the golf club around like some berserking barbarian, chopping away at junk, with his dangling bits flailing all about.

A pure, genuine laugh erupted from his sore throat as the image floated across his mind. He must have been a sight to see for poor Hedwig.

It was not until a sudden, foreign spike of curiosity blew across his mind that Harry was brought down from his emotional high. The bewildered teen noticed that he was not as alone as he first thought and that the mysterious presence had once again snuck into his head for a look around.

Harry fell over to his side and buried his glowing face in cupped palms, groaning in embarrassment over what it might have seen. Whatever this thing was, it had the worst timing.

A dark humor rolled off the entity in waves. However, its humor was tempered with a strange emotion Harry could not put a name to as it silently retreated from his mind, seemingly content with whatever it had come to do.

Its disappearance prompted Harry to scramble to his aching feet in order to find something decent to wear. This task might have proved easier had he not decided to decimate his once orderly room –well, as orderly as he could get it.

Dressed in semi clean clothes again, Harry carefully balled up his soiled clothes and blanket, stuffed them within some plastic bags, and hid them away in his closet. He would have to wash them somehow without the Dursleys finding out and ridiculing him for wetting himself in his sleep. He was fortunate enough that it had only gotten on his clothes and that the blanket had been balled up enough from his troubled sleep to soak up the remainder before it could reach the carpet. The open window would hopefully help air-out the remnants of the odor and bring in fresh air, dispelling the rancid smell.

Noticing it was still well within the twilight hours outside, the teenager checked to make sure Hedwig was ok and reassured her that he had not gone crazy yet with a few good pets and scratches. He then wearily clamored on top of his small bed, shuffled around until he found the most comfortable spot, swatted the corrective lenses off his face, and fell into sleep quickly, exhausted from his laborish tantrum.

…

Harry awoke the next morning with the flickering images of trees dancing across his eyes. He remembered now. He had had the same dream from the day before, but this one did not feel the same. The unexplainable pull was missing, as were the whispers from the trees and the mysterious feeling he got from the forests.

It was like he was reliving an old memory; he remembered what had happened but the details were muted and the emotions dulled. He still felt the hesitant curiosity when he reached out to the decaying tree and the overwhelming fear and panic when the darkness enveloped his arm, but they were not to the crippling degree he had felt the night before.

Harry was unmistakably glad for that small blessing. He did not fancy choking himself into unconsciousness again. He remembered those few terrifying minutes that he had spent gasping for breath and withering on the floor trying to flee from his hallucinations. So strong were his emotions and his mind's belief that it was happening, his lungs had seized up believing the plague was choking the air from him.

The teenager shook himself from the frightening memories and rolled off his small cot, intending to nimbly land on his feet… only to encounter a stack of disheveled books and debris. His feet slipped on glossy, open book pages and he tumbled over to his side, landing painfully on his bony hip in front of the remains of his destroyed alarm clock.

Blinking owlishly and trying to rub the pain away, Harry took a gander around his room, but everything beyond the reflective clock face was one giant blur before placing his glasses on to somewhat fixed his impairment. He had forgotten all about his rampage the night before, and now with the late-morning light spilling in through his window Harry could see the results of his anger. Harry would probably end up back under the stairs when his Uncle saw this little stunt. There was no way Harry could fix all this before Dudley got back.

Groaning in defeat Harry slowly climbed to his feet and took a look around. Hopefully by the time Vernon returned his old injuries would be mended and he would not have to add to the long list he already had.

Hedwig watched quietly from her cage as Harry tidied up just a small portion of the room. He carved out the small walking paths so he would not catch his toes or stumble on anything, cleaned off his desk, righting everything important that might have been knocked over by flying debris, and fretfully approached his bedroom door.

His head landed with a small thud as Harry slowly brought his forehead against the painted wood, praying for one moment that it might not be locked as he hesitantly twisted the metal handle.

Nothing…the door stayed stubbornly closed to him.

Slamming his free hand against the wood in frustration, Harry abruptly pushed away from the object that barred him his freedom and slowly made his way back over to Hedwig. With a defeated huff the teenager plopped down on the floor, hugging his legs close to his chest with thin arms, and laid his pounding head on bent knees.

Harry was starting to go a little stir crazy being locked within this dismal four-walled prison. It was livable while the Dursleys were here –as strange as that may sound. They had always provided some kind of noise to fill the silent void that now rang painfully in his ears. Now that they were gone, all the sounds of life were absent except the occasional shrill ring of the telephone downstairs and the distant sounds of the neighborhood that came through his window.

An unsatisfied rumble made itself known from his ever-empty stomach, prompting Harry to uncurl from his seated position and search around for wherever the cans might have hid themselves in last night's tirade.

While trudging through the horrid leafy, green vegetables, Harry told Hedwig of his dreams and explained the painful episode afterwards. Her golden eyes then stared solemnly off into the distance as he quietly spoke of the dying forest and the dark spot that grew from his hand. He spoke of the fear but also the strange hope the dream gave him. He feared that place, that dying forest, but he also felt that he could save it from the death that grew rampant there if only he knew how.

As Harry slowly finished his tale the two magical companions fell into contemplative silence.

Harry was reluctant to finish the task he set for himself yesterday. A lot of things were weighing down on him this summer and dealing with them all was just becoming a hassle. Popping the last of the brussel sprouts he could stand to eat at the moment into his mouth, the raven-haired teen scowled. The taste of the detested vegetable was a perfect accompaniment to his thoughts. Harry knew he had to finish thinking over the letter. He had to be sure of his own thoughts before he stepped foot back into the wizarding world or answered Voldemort's truce.

It was not like he was going anywhere any time soon.

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**AN: **Read and Review please.

**Recommending Reading:**

Get Off My Back by BlasterBlurby

After escaping the war in England Harry has found peace in living his life out in his animagus form, that is until Voldemort needed a ride. Drabble, Harry/Voldemort, Horse!Harry, M/M Relationship

This story is a funny little break from the norm. Horse!Harry is ridiculous and his interactions with the author's OCs will have you grinning like mad. Only thing wrong is that updates are few and far in-between.


	7. If Wishes Were Horses,Beggars Would Ride

**Disclaimer**: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**AN: **I wanted to get Harry completely out of the house this chapter because like you guys, I was getting tired of him being there. But the chapter was becoming excessively long and I found myself cutting content I felt the story needed to support future plotlines. Also there were important scenes competing for attention.

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**Too Have Fallen**

**If Wishes Were Horses, Beggars Would Ride**

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The late morning hours after a diet of brussel sprouts and lukewarm water were spent rummaging through the confines of his room in search for something to pass the time. Colorful pictures of children's books held no interest and their fanciful stories Harry had read hundreds of times before in previous years' efforts to stave off the same affliction he suffered from now. Broken toys were quickly dismissed because despite feeling too old to play with them, quintessential parts to their functions were long lost somewhere in the rolling masses of junk on the floor.

The discovery of a small, red rubber ball was the find of a lifetime and the muggle equivalent of Seeker games and an imaginary Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin commenced for a few hours afterwards. That was until a spectacular toss to the chocolate stain pretending to be a Beater and a missed catch had the springy orb ricocheting off the back wall at precisely the right angel and soaring through the window and out into the wild blue yonder, leaving the trapped teen within staring bewildered at his empty hands and frustrated at his misfortune.

The rat-bearing, russet colored owl was the only break from the monotony of his afternoon. Harry had learned his lesson about dealing with this unfriendly character and had only taken the small rodent from the bird after he ordered the owl to drop it on the floor. The feathered fiend did not stay long after making its delivery, leaving Harry once more questioning why it continued to come and if the Dark Lord had ordered the owl to seek out a meal for Hedwig every day. That curious thought only prompted unsettling questions as to how an owl from Voldemort could so easily locate him and if he was truly safe within the bloodwards of Number 4.

Harry tried to stay away from the nagging questions that crept up on him whenever he paused in thought or action, such as why he had only received mail from the bloody Dark Lord and not from his friends or the Order. If Dumbledore went with the same spiel about protecting his location from _undesirables_ like he did last summer, Harry was going to blow a gasket. Obliviously it was not as true as the Headmaster would have them believe.

Gryffindor recklessness later that boring afternoon was running at an all time high and almost had him writing a letter to the Dark Lord just to see if the first correspondence had been a fluke. The longer Harry thought about it, the more appealing the idea became to him. He had so many questions to ask the man, truths that needed to be set straight, and answers to be given. The letter could easily be given to the demon owl if it indeed returned the next day for delivery.

The teen was pretty certain the russet owl would only deliver the letter to Voldemort and no one else. So no other living soul besides the Dark Lord would ever know the letter existed. There was no need to tell the Order or Dumbledore, they would only berate him for doing something so utterly foolish. Harry understood that what he wanted to do would seem like an asinine risk to others, but he needed answers. And if Voldemort truly was giving him an out in this war, he wanted to be aware of the circumstances and repercussions before answering.

Body strumming with renewed energy at finally having made a decision his mind could wholeheartedly agree on, Harry scrambled up off the dirty floor and began the search for the simple tools he would need to begin his endeavor as his wide-eyed Snowy Owl looked on.

Harry had never put much thought into parchment or ink before. He had seen the towering stacks of varying, pressed parchment and the near endless rows of glass bottles of the colorful inks Flourish and Blottssported. But he had always preferred to grab the cheapest and more easily accessible materials near the front counter. He had thought there was so many different kinds so rich prats like Malfoy could have a wide variety in their writing materials. But now, that idea seemed so ridiculous naive.

Surely members of Parliament did not write important matters of state on lined-paper, so why did he automatically assume all wizarding matters were addressed on cheap parchment? Of course important business matters such as peace treaties, pureblood event invitations, and negotiations would involve special care with high quality types of inks and paper. A well scripted letter on expensive parchment and written from fine ink, went a long way to persuade someone to your cause, as Harry had grudgingly learned from Voldemort's letter.

'This is going to go over great,' Harry could not help thinking cynically as he looked over the sparse amount of mix-matched paper he managed to scavenge from the desk and his surrounding room.

Would the Dark Lord take his response seriously if it was written on muggle paper? Hell, all he had to write with at the moment was a cheap, ball-point pen from a dental clinic and a broken orange crayon. Harry was doubtful the pen would even hold out until the end of the letter. Nothing said he was more sincere than a childishly written letter on double-lined grade-school paper in a cheese colored writing utensil.

Another issue became alarmingly clear as he began to jot down a series of questions he wanted to send back in his inquiry.

As a young child Harry had prided himself in learning how to read and write before his Cousin and with little help from his grade-school teachers. The smallest Potter had always enjoyed both activities as they were the only things he could use to stave off the hours of boredom caused by being locked within his dark cupboard. He had spent many hours crammed up against the wooden door, reading anything he could sneak away from his relatives by the segmented light spilling in through the air vent slats on its lower portion.

It was a great accomplishment and he thought he wrote very well for being self-taught. That is until he entered the wizarding world and was forced to use a bird's feather of all things to write with.

The quill was a very finicky tool. The fine tip required just the right amount of pressure to make even, legible strokes. Mastering the right amount of ink to use while writing had taken him many long nights of practice, but still Hermione and many of his teachers deemed his essays near illegible.

Looking down at the chicken scratch he called writing, he could see where they were coming from. His words were spaced too far apart, as if he was writing a potion essay and was trying to fill in as much space as he could without having to actually say very much on the subject. Many of his letters were slanted sideways, had extra tidbits attached or borderline looked like different letters altogether. It had never bothered him before now because he was always scribbling down whatever nonsense he could think of right at the last minute and he seldom ever cared to look back over his work for mistakes.

Being a below average student had never mattered much; it was a means of survival for him during his childhood at the Dursleys. He was never to bring back better work than Dudley. Attempts to gain favorable recognition from his relatives in the form of top grades were met with harsher punishments than failing ones. Whereas C's got Dudley ice-cream and presents, A's got little Harry hard cuffs into walls and an extra set of homework to do each night.

He would feverishly devour his class material and the sparse books from the school library, only to hide the extent of his knowledge from his teachers and relatives later on. With the addition of the knowledgeable Hermione as a friend - and the little voice within his head chanting that he was not a Ravenclaw or a Slytherin, but a Gryffindor, and brave lions were to have fun, not study - the instinctive behavior changed very little.

But boy was he paying for all that inattention now. Here he was attempting to write a letter that could very well spare him from a deadly fate, and he could barely make out his own bloody handwriting.

"That's it, the world is conspiring against me," Harry muttered darkly to himself while nervously threading slender fingers through his lanky hair. The mulish Gryffindor shuddered at the very thought that he was going to look just as bad as Snape if he did not get a proper shower soon.

Harry decided, if by some miracle, Voldemort accepted his poorly written correspondence he would put more effort into his studies and improving his penmanship.

Harry was not so naïve to think that he had been passing all his classes by his own merits. It was only by the grace of being the Boy-Who-Lived and probably a little side-line inference by the Headmaster that he passed any of his more challenging subjects. But if he decided to distance himself from the war and Dumbledore, squeaking by in his classes would become unacceptable. The name Harry Potter alone would no longer automatically guarantee himself a reliable job after the public became aware of his decision. Studying hard in whatever his future career was and earning it by his own merits would be essential. That meant no more blowing off essays and class material for goofing off with Ron, but buckling down to study to improve his grades.

Regrettably, there was nothing to be done about his O.W.L.S, but he had two years to study for his N.E.W.T.S, and his quality of life after Hogwarts now depended on his scores. Even if it meant going back to year one in every subject and starting over from the basics; he resolved to do what needed to be done.

After many attempts at fixing his writing and combining his ideas together to somewhat respectable paragraphs, Harry began to write out a rough draft of his letter. He crammed as much as he could onto the scratch paper that he had, not wanting to waste space. Unfortunately, the blunt orange crayon made this rather difficult and the teen was forced to use the ink pen as the crayon became too worn down to write legibly. It took some hard pressed scribbling to get the dried out tip of the pen working again and the frazzled teen, in his frustration, tore a hole through his paper, causing him to let out a slew of curses at the fates that were obviously enjoying playing with him.

A few hours later, with a little stalling on his part and much scribbling out of words, Harry had the rough draft complete. His arms took on the part of writing surfaces after he had run out of room on his scratch paper, and he hoped muggle ink washed off easier than wizarding ink, because he did not fancy spending days with the evidence of his boredom tattooed on his skin.

Much time had been spent trying not to sound so immature in his writing. Harry used words and phrases he often heard from Hermione or the smart talk of the few Ravenclaws he had meet. Or, Merlin help him, Malfoy and Snape. Harry found it invigorating to sound sophisticated and so unlike a Gryffindor. Often in his mind his thoughts would be dyed sliver and green in maturity and cynicism, but to speak that way aloud earned him skeptical looks from Hermione and annoyed groans from Ron that he should leave the _smart talk_ up to 'Mione.

Harry just dubbed it his Slytherin side and imitated the other teenage boys around him, dumbing down his intelligence, and keeping his innermost thoughts to himself. But now Harry had a chance to let that side of him shine through and he would need it in order to gain acknowledgement from Voldemort.

Making sure everything was neat and not smudged, Harry slowly but surely finished what he dubbed his masterpiece of peace. The last Potter could just see Hermione cringing at the horrible pun but he was proud of his accomplishment and thought it deserved a name. Hand cramping and arse sore, Harry read his letter aloud to Hedwig for confirmation of success.

_Voldemort,_

_I hope you would not deny me my skepticism in regards to the sincerity of your letter. One does not simply go from being on the Dark Lord's most wanted list to being completely free of all charges without so much as a slap on the wrist. You undoubtedly want something only I can give you, and considering the high offer you put on the table, it is something you most desperately want._

_But I think we will play this the Slytherin way. While freedom from the war might be something I value, it will come at a high personal cost to my future. What good are dreams and hopes when you are too much of a social pariah to pursue them? My name would be shunned, blacklisted, worth less than the dirt in the street if I were to go through with this._

_I have a lot to lose by defacing myself, while you would gain so much in return. The public's demoralization at seeing their Golden Boy flee like a coward alone would be extremely valuable to you regardless of whatever it is that you require from me for my freedom. So, dear Tom, you are going to have to sweeten the pot for me to even consider committing this social suicide._

_Considering the implications my decision could inflict upon myself and the war, I do not think I am asking for much: just a few questions answered, some promises made, and maybe a demonstration of your sincerity._

_While I admit I know very little about prophecies and the art of Divination, believing that the prophecy connecting our fates to one day duel to the death was just a fabrication created by Dumbledore solely on your word is a little farfetched, even for a Gryffindor like me. Proof, of some kind, would go a long way in convincing me that this might be true._

_Irregardless of whether Dumbledore faked the prophecy or not, it will take much more than just your word, the word of a Dark Lord and someone who has sworn to kill me, to shake my faith in him. The Headmaster has done others, and myself, great wrongs in the past, but considering who, and what, he is fighting against, certain faults can be overlooked. _

_He is not the grandfatherly figure he portrays, I should know that better than anyone, but despite all the damage he has caused he is still a great and respectable man. While Professor Dumbledore is a much needed figure in these times of war and is loved by the masses, I hope when the wizarding world finally attains peace, and he is no longer required to lead, he can be privately asked to answer for all the crimes he has committed. I believe he deserves that much._

_So while your truce might require me to no longer stand by his side, it will not change the fact I believe him to be the better man._

_As to being blinded by Dumbledore regarding my family's history and the Old Ways, I must confess I have never put much thought into it. With the continuous threats on my life and those of my friends, and with each school year being riddled with deadly confrontations, learning about my father's family had never occurred to me. _

_Nonetheless, I shall endeavor to look into this oversight of mine and consider your words on the matter. While having more power to my name, like you suggest being the Lord of House of Black and Potter would bring me, has never appealed to me, knowing more about myself and my family's origins does hold significant value. _

_Furthermore, I have never heard or read anything about the Old Ways or this Līf to Līf ritual you claim my mother completed. Considering neither I, nor any of my roommates, have ever seen any curious symbols or markings upon my body, other than the lightning-bolt curse scar I am famous for, I have to question whether what you say about this ritual is true or not. Just like with the prophecy, I request proof in order to make certain my decision on the matter. _

_On the topic of the Old Ways, I can only imagine they were a brand of magic the Ministry had band for some reason or another, but that only brings up the question as to why? You say that the Potters - an ancient, light orientated family - had long since practiced the Old Ways, so why would Dumbledore consider it Dark Magic and try to hide the fact my grandparents practiced them? Why would James Potter so suddenly cease practicing such a long held family tradition? _

_And if the Līf to Līf ritual belonged to the Old Ways and the magic itself has only been practiced by dark pureblood families for the past few generations now, then how did Lily Potter –a Muggleborn– come across this magic? _

_As for the war, I must ask you your plans regarding the wizarding and muggle world should you win. What of those of the Light faction that fought against you? What social or economical repercussions will they face? What are you aims regarding muggles and the Statue of Secrecy? _

_Your stand on Muggleborns is also a concern of mine. All I have ever heard regarding this topic is that you wish for them to be exterminated, believing they are all a blight on magic. Admittedly this information is from rather bias sources but we all know even the most absurd rumors carry a small grain of truth. If this is your solution to the 'muggleborn problem' than say so now for I will not stand aside for this. _

_Everyone knows that pureblood numbers are declining and the increasing complications from inbreeding are the cause to this. Can an infusion of Muggleborn blood not be the solution? For example: Hermione Ganger and Lily Evans are both known to be the brightest witches of their respective ages, near perfect scores in every subject, and both being muggleborn. Then there is Crabbe and Goyle, both purebloods retaining the brain capacity of Neanderthals, no magical talent whatsoever, and from what I hear, exact replicas of their fathers. Tell me how the second could be anymore desirable than the first? The wizarding world is slowly dwindling in number and capability, and Muggleborns could soon become essential to our survival as a race. _

_Could school programs not be created for them to prepare them better for schooling? Or perhaps a class somewhat like Muggle Studies implemented to teach them about the magical world? One cannot appreciate a tradition or celebrate a special holiday if the knowledge of its existence and function is never shared with you. They can be integrated better into the wizarding society without the need for bloodshed if a little more effort was given to the cause. _

_I would ask you about your thoughts on the Ministry but as I have very little faith in the small portion of it that I have had the dubious pleasure of being exposed to, I doubt our thoughts on the matter stray far from each other. If there is anything in this war we reluctantly see eye to eye with, it would be that the Ministry is in dire need of change. _

_In regards to your statement about the Ministry finding me a threat should I ever complete the task they have set out for me and throwing me within Azkaban because of it…I regrettably find myself agreeing. And after much thought I find myself agreeing with much of what you said about them, the wizarding public that is. You say I let them hide behind me but I wish for nothing more than for them to leave me be. Unfortunately that is an opinion unavailable to me at this time being who I am and what they believe me to stand for. _

_You ask me to step aside from Dumbledore but you know, just as I, that he will never willingly let me go. You say you know the man much more than I, well then tell me-give me something that will loosen his hold on me, something that will give me my freedom from him permanently and legally. _

_I have had much time to think about your offer but I think an answer at this moment would be a little premature of me considering all the unknown variables. And yet I cannot seem to get far from the question as to why you want this truce. A small number of reasons have come to mind based off your letter, but none seem convincing and matching to that of your personality. _

_Answer my questions, provide me my proof, and perhaps a show of your sincerity that this truce is not a farce, and you will have your answer. _

_Regards,_

_Harry James Potter._

_P.S. Does your incredibly rude owl have a name?_

Smiling, Harry could not help but add the last part. Voldemort probably named it some dramatic Latin or French name for a god or something just to go along with the man's over-inflated ego. He would not mention the fact that the owl had been bringing Hedwig something to eat everyday just in case the man turned vindictive and demanded that the russet bird stop.

Getting a nod of approval from the earnest Hedwig, Harry could not wipe the smile off his face as he carefully folded his letter into thirds and stumbled out of the wobbly chair to stand.

Staggering backwards, harshly jarring his vulnerable hip into the fake wooden desk, the boy fretfully clutched at its sharp corners with one hand to stay standing. Slumping over and the heel of his free hand pressing hard against his forehead, Harry drew in a sharp breath as his head pounded fiercely and his vision tipped. The headaches were getting progressively worse it seemed.

Silent moments ticked by as Harry leaned against the furniture's front. Torso bowed forward, messy, black hair sheltering his pale face as moister gathered at the corners of his eyes, he waited for the strain to quiet back down to a manageable level. Even with his magic constantly relieving the pain, sometimes the headaches would flare up beyond his magic's control and afflict him like this. He would have to look into whatever this was and deal with it soon, but he constantly drew a blank to whom to ask for assistance from.

Gently placing his completed letter on the desk and moving the inactive Tri-Wizard dragon figurine on top so it would not unexpectedly blow away, Harry moved away from the desk and towards the dark window. Outside the blooming Magnolia tree in the Dursley's backyard was bathed in the sparse light of the streetlamps and the wind gently blew through its branches, causing its green, waxy leaves to stir and sing. The sounds of chirping crickets, distant croaking frogs, and the seldom passing car gave ambience to the otherwise still summer night. If Harry closed his eyes and wished hard enough, he could almost imagine himself somewhere else, anywhere else but here.

Harry slowly slid down the painted wall to join Hedwig on the dirty carpet, ignoring the lingering pains of his body and heart as he did all day, and began to methodically run his fingers lightly over her feathers. With one last misty, green-eyed glance at the stubbornly locked door that he wished so fervently would open, the teen slowly began to whisper stories to his first friend. They were of dreams, nightmares, hopes, and loses. Tales of laughter, grief, and shame, whispered for her reverent ears only, long into the peaceful night until he could no longer fight the lull of sleep, and passed into unconsciousness.

…

Harry had been sitting sprawled out on the floor of his room – fingers once again playing in his hair- for the better part of the sun's early jog throughout the morning sky. Contemplating the wonders of wandless magic and if indeed there was any merit to the fanciful stories he had read regarding the subject. Tales of mothers magically moving entire buildings, husbands redirecting harmful spells to themselves to save their wives, and dueling Lords of opposing factions using nothing but their hands to determine the victor. All of it sounded grand, but Harry simply wished to use the feat to open his door. Surely that was not too much to ask for?

Different theories of picturing the spell in your mind and intoning its name aloud all proved ineffective after a half an hour of him screaming _Alohomora_ at the deaf door to only receive a sore, parched throat for his efforts. No matter of varying the placement of his small hands on its unyielding surface worked as well. The wooden structure stubbornly refused to bow before his will as he commanded it to open in English and hissed threateningly at it in Parseltongue, and picturing the door magically springing ajar only worsened his mood when each attempt was met with failure.

The Gryffindor remembered hearing from some source that magic was half intent, and Harry believed he had all the intent in the world, so why was it not working? Was there something he was missing? Some magical sign or gold sticker of a course completed in the subject? Or could only powerful wizards complete the fabled feat?

Loud, familiar tapping prompted the melancholy youth to mechanically stand from his uncomfortable spot on the floor - stretching stiff, tense muscles from remaining in the same position for so long - and stagger over to greet the familiar form of Voldemort's owl once again glaring at him from outside the barred recess

Harry almost blindly reached forward to retrieve the small rodent he could see clutched in the bird's claws before remembering the letter he wished to send back with the bird.

Last night under the anonymous cover of darkness it had seemed like such a grand idea-secretly send a letter to the Dark Lord, demanding answers from the man, and somehow receive a response back without anyone ever being the wiser. But now in the revealing light of day, Harry was not so sure. Was this really a risk he was willing to take? It held such dire consequences should he be found out for such paltry chances the correspondence might be accepted and favorably replied too.

Biting into his injured, bottom lip in indecisiveness, the black hair boy looked down at his bare feet peeking out from under the overly-large jeans he wore – thin toes curling into the carpet fibers- wishing that an answer would magically spring forth from the ground… yet no such answer came. But the dark smudges of ink along the pale, inner flesh of his forearms resolved his silent plea. All his hard work, all the questions he needed answers to, all his hopes and dreams, and most importantly, the chance of freedom that was being offered to him was there starring back at him.

Harry's head gradually came up and he purposely strode over to the brown workspace in the corner and gently picked up the white, folded piece of paper: his masterpiece of peace. Carefully clutching the life changing reply close to his thundering heart, the nervous youth walked back to the yawning window and the pretentious owl perched there.

"Will you please give this to your master; he should be expecting it," Harry intoned with a firm, steady voice that contradicted his current inner turmoil, while holding out the letter to the dark messenger. Said bird of prey pinned him with a long, hard, accessing look before slowly lifting its unoccupied foot and unfurling its talons, patiently waiting for Harry to freely make the next move.

The tortuous knowledge that he could still turn around, send the owl away, seal the ajar portal, and pretend that he never received the damning letter from the Dark Lord, was not lost on Harry. He felt like Eve standing before the forbidden tree in the Garden of Eden. The fruit was a hefty weight, here in his small hands, the fruit of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Voldemort, the snake curled about the forbidden tree's branches tempting him to eat it.

Flashes of massive, dark giants gently swaying under the benign light of the full moon, pale, lifeless trees covered in blackened rot, and ruby-red eyes surrounded by pitch black fur striding through thick fog had Harry placing the letter into the owl's waiting talons and releasing his desperate grip on its crinkled corner.

Taking a deep breath to hold off the rising tide of panic and anxiety he could feel swelling within him, turbulent green eyes stared into hardened amber. The trembling teen then reached over and gently took the rodent from where the owl had deposited the animal on the window seal and the bird made no move to bite him or impeded him in anyway. Its eyes were fixed firmly on his face, searching for any signs that the small wizard intended to go back on his decision.

Taking the letter into a firmer grasp, the Great Horned owl gave a short incline of its noble head, spread its wings wide, and impressively took off into the open skies, trekking off to a destination Harry knew not where.

The die had been cast, there was no return.

After the russet bird was nothing but a distant spec in the sky, Harry's shaky legs collapsed out from under him and he fell hard to his knees on the floor. The teen carelessly dropped the bleeding rat and trembling hands feverishly took the window seal above his head into a white knuckled grip. Digging splintering fingernails painfully into the wood to secure his hold and smearing the chipped white paint with blood. Eyes screwed forcefully shut against the toppling motion of vertigo and pain from his head, Harry brought his forehead hard against the cool wall to try and steady himself.

The ground at his feet was dangerously heaving and felt at any moment that it might give way. He needed this only ray of hope, this glimpse of the outside world beyond the hellish four walls of his bedroom to ground him.

This room that represented the relative familiarity and shelter that had been the life he knew before. The clutter and junk ridden floor the constantly swaying opinions of the wizarding world. The deadbolted door, Dumbledore: always hiding something greater from view and controlling what could and could not enter his small world. The cat flap at the bottom from which the essentials of life were brought was the prophecy. Hedwig and her cage: his yearning freedom that was denied him, the work desk: Hogwarts, leaning bookshelf: Hermione, and the broken toys: Ron. The Dursleys, all the hurtful, unpredictable events he could not control in his life. And on and on the comparisons could be made.

But the view outside this barred window: his hopes and dreams. His desperately wished for future. A small view now but beyond the bars and panes of glass, a world of infinite possibilities; far stretching into the horizon. Freedom, wind and rain, song and dance, laughter and happiness: just outside, if only he could reach it.

If magic was half intention and wandless magic could be performed if one craved it desperately enough, then why was he still trapped within these barricading walls? He could accidentally free a snake from the zoo at ten but he could not liberate himself from his own bedroom at fifteen. Pitiful.

Thoughts of his mother's mysterious magic, the heritage of the Potter family that he yearned to explore, and his questionable freedom at the hands of the Dark Lord had the wizard's magic sweeping out beyond its bodily confines. Relentlessly it thrashed at the objects around it, whipping a green wind about the small space. Lifeless, muggle toys began to move with robotic shutters, colorful images flicked to life on broken television screens, and words like tiny ants marched in formation on storybook pages, all at the magic's uncontrollable whims.

Slowly slumping against the wall, thinking only of the outside world, the teen's exhaustion finally caught hold of his rapidly firing mind and blissfully pulled him under into sleep. Elation at finally being free, the emerald tempest fulfilled one last innocent wish before returning to its owner.

Chest rising and falling rhythmically in slumber, Harry did not hear the numerous locks and chains on the detested door slide and click, and the portal creak open.

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**AN: **A reviewer asked for a timeline and so here we are. My previous timeline had to be shuffled around due to the removal and addition of certain scenes. If you spot any mistakes in previous chapters I might have missed, please let me know so that I may fix them.

Thursday: Vision from Voldemort about Halloween around noon, reads letter mid-afternoon, cat fight in mindscape and passes out until the next day

Friday: Scene with Severus and Voldemort, and scene with Dumbledore both early morning, Spat with Dudley around noon, forest sequence late evening, tantrum later that night

Saturday: Broods most of the day and writes letter to Voldemort finishing it late at night ((this day originally was going to contain another scene but it was moved in order to speed things along, sorry if it seemed bland))

Sunday: Sends reply off to Voldemort and door becomes unlocked, both early morning

**Recommended Reading:**

Lost Phoenix by Sshp4ever

Harry is at the Dursley's for the summer. After a traumatic encounter with his uncle, Harry gets abandoned on the outskirts of London. Who will save him? Post-OOTP. Snarry Slash. Hurt/Comfort. Some non-con early in the story.

Writing is amazing and Sshp does a great job on her Severus. Little lost Harry is in need of our favorite dungeon-bat's help, and I am looking forward to the outcome of this one. There is a rape scene at the beginning so if that is not your cup of tea, you can skip it.

Does anyone actually read any of these? I am actually curious to know.


	8. All The King's Horses

**Disclaimer**: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**AN: **Thank you guys for all the lovely reviews, favorites, and alerts. Just a few things before we start! Updates will come sporadically for a number of reasons. One: I got into the medical program I app'd for a few months back and that starts in fall but I have a lot of things to before then. Two: I have unfortunately run out of stock of many back up chapters and will have to write more. Third: Diablo 3 launched this week, no more explanation needed right? Lastly: this chapter is a transition chapter and not much happens, but they all can't be crazy action filled chapters, there has to be some down time some time.

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**Too Have Fallen**

**All The Kings Horses**

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Hedwig gently carded her beak through the fine strands of her master's disheveled hair as she patiently waited for Harry to wake. Her luminous, golden eyes watched as his chest rose and fell in sequence and the emotions of his dreams acted out on the unbidden stage of his physical features with the scrunching plains of his face and the spasmodic jerks of his thinning limbs. She had been watching him closely these few hours that Morpheus laid claim to him, a silent guardian against the numerous fears that hunted him tirelessly. And with every approach of fitful sleep she would soothe him, coo the whispered words of her own mundane spells into the whorl of his ear until the terrors passed and he relaxed again to lay within the dark waters of unconsciousness undisturbed.

The midsummer days had been trying on her little human and Hedwig wished for nothing more than to just settle him under her sheltering wings, hide him away from the cruel world that bayed for his innocent heart, and protect him like any loving mother should her young chick. But all was not so simple and Harry just a little too big. So she did all she could for him by remaining faithfully by his side and protecting him from the copious threats his too-trusting eyes could not see.

It hurt her deeply at anxious times such as these, when she could do nothing to alleviate his many wounds or console his growing worries beyond the ruffling of her wings, simple nips on his fingers, or the wordless sounds of her cooing voice. Or all the times before when her chick was _heroically_ set out to struggle his way blindly through the dark and dangerous depths of a world he did not understand, and she could not guide him like the Polaris Star she so desperately wished to be for him. Hedwig would happily sacrifice all her precious flight feathers to the goddess to burn away the tangling lies like Devil's Snare that bound him and finally set the teen free. But she could not. Not with the limitations of her form or the immense power and authority of the ones that sought to cage him.

But then hope had come on red tipped wings in the form of a letter. Prometheus, the Horned owl whispered to her in the formless language of their kind, sent by his dark master to offer the knowledge of fire stolen by the imperious Zeus back to man, and to return each day for a reply, whatever the answer may be.

But only after ensuring the intentions of the owl's human did Hedwig allow Harry to read the mysterious letter. She knew, should she have made a fuss at seeing the letter or its feathered messenger, the young wizard would have never opened it, and whatever plans the enigmatic man had been scheming would have fallen short then and there. But upon hearing the Dark Lord's aim was much the same as hers, however two-fold it might be, Hedwig understood this was going to be the only chance in a very long time she had at achieving her goal.

The illuminated truths the missive spoke of may have shaken him, knocked him to the ground as it were, but she knew her Harry was strong enough to stand on his own two feet and continue on his own way from now on. No more blindly following the jackal that called itself a bee. Questions would be asked and motives determined; strings cut and a new path forged.

Hedwig just prayed that the goddess would continue to watch over her dear-heart and allow the owl to stay by his side for this arduous journey Harry still had yet to make.

But thoughts of the unpredictable future could wait, for now the times were somewhat peaceful and her chick would need these better memories to remind him why he had to fight later. So she would sit and wait. Bide her time by carefully grooming her weary youth; continue her vigil, and watch him grow into the powerful wizard she knew was sleeping dormant just beneath the murky surface.

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xXx

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Coming back to the waking world, Harry felt that, once again, he had been run over by a rampaging herd of Hippogriffs. That followed by a few other nameless analogies his clouded mind could not offer up but he was sure the Hippogriffs were trailed by something really big… and heavy, maybe something with spikes, claws, and giant, blood-sucking teeth to complete the set. Because that could be the only explanation as to why he felt this bad.

All of this was, more or less, normal routine with his summer stays at the Dursleys, but that did not explain away the bone deep ache centering on his chest as if he pulled every conceivable muscle in his torso. More so, his magic was swirling around within his taxed system at an uncontrollable rate, jumping from one ache to the next without completely healing the one before. It was bottled chaos, and the mystic, emerald stream paid no heed to his commands at calming down to focus on one problem at a time.

Seemingly over the course of his ill-devised nap, his magical reserves had gone from a contently bubbling brook with a few rocky dams impeding its path to a squalling tide of river rapids thundering throughout the parched valleys of his body. After long, unsuccessful minutes of trying to wrangle control back from the raging waters, Harry just relinquished control and settled down to wait out its fury, feeling somehow lighter, like he had been hefting around an unseen weight that had been shed in his sleep.

Finally after long moments of silently watching, the tide relented and became gently flowing waters that ran deep below their deceptive surface.

Cataloging the state of his still lightly thrumming body for whatever it was that might have changed, Harry finally registered an unexplained weight bearing down on his shoulder. Slowly swerving his head to the side of the anomaly, Harry peeked out from between the greasy folds of his black hair to meet a fluffy, white mass and two amused, half-lidded golden eyes staring back.

The sight finally donning on his sleep-addled mind, Harry whipped his head around to stare at the empty, sliver cage sitting a few feet away – door hanging open and lock lying on the floor. Aches and curious green streams were forgotten as the joyous thought of Hedwig being free occupied the entirety of his mind. Preparing to jerk up and greet his friend, Harry abruptly stopped mid-turn and uncharacteristically thought of what the hasty action might do to her weakened state.

Carefully climbing to his bruised hands and knees, Harry waited until he was fully seated to try to take in the form of his faithful familiar, stiff neck muscles protesting the awkward angle. Sensing her master's pain no matter how hard he tried to hide it, Hedwig nimbly traveled down from her perch on one slender shoulder – too sharp talons punching small holes into the shirt he wore — and made herself comfortable on his presented forearm so he could more easily see her while she lovingly nibbled at the boy's fingers.

Seeing his friend this close after so many weeks separated by the cage enabled Harry to take in the full extent of her condition. Lack of proper food caused the bird to lose her hearty plump, continued exposure to stress had molted her once beautiful feathers, and lack of movement due to confinement resulted in weakness in her limbs and muscle atrophy. All fairly easy conditions that could be fixed with healthy amounts of food, rest and a little exercise before getting her back into the air.

The Potter heir wearily slumped forward in his relief at his findings. Forehead gently resting on her feathered head, Harry spoke softly to her as he brushed shaky, fervent fingers down the plumage of her wings. "You're ok girl, you're free. Everything is going to be ok now. We'll get out of here somehow. We'll run away and never come back, like some grand fairy tale. Who needs the wizarding world and all their problems? We'll stay up late, eat all we want, and never have to do anything we don't want to like Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. Just you and me, Hedwig."

He did not know what he would have done should she have been seriously injured in any way. Every summer the fear bloomed in his heart that this might be the last time he saw his first friend. Between Vernon's mounting threats, Dudley beating on her small cage to upset his cousin on nights he refused to cry out from the pain he inflicted, and the continuous starvation, Hedwig seemed to survive on pure stubborn will and the grace of whatever deity that favored her. For Harry, he always came just a little too close to losing her —his mother and guiding light.

After basking in the loving attentions of her solemn master for a short while, Hedwig ruffled her feathers, hunkered down firmly on the boy's arm, and let out a soft hoot to draw his attention. She then turned her gaze to the far end of the room and towards the previously sealed entrance of Harry's own cage.

Confused green eyes followed Hedwig's direction and stopped, staring dumbfound at the small sliver of the ghastly, floral-print wallpaper of the hallway he could see just beyond the open door. Although terribly tacky and old fashioned, the mere sight of the other side was the equivalent of a seven course meal to a starving man.

Hastily scrambling to his feet – awkwardly trying to keep the arm holding Hedwig level — Harry tripped and stumbled over the hurdles of his littered floor and towards the other side of the room and to freedom.

Drawing short and hesitating at the door, the teen peeked his head out and tried to listen for other signs of life over the sound of his heart beating away in his ears. No laughter or gunshots from the telly, no rhythmic booming of a stereo, and no dishes rattling together in the kitchen. Harry cautiously looked up and down the hall for any indications that someone might be hiding inside. Doors all firmly shut and no dark silhouettes of feet breaking the light coming out from underneath their borders. The Dursleys were seemingly still absent from Number 4.

Before venturing out the door, the Gryffindor turned around and set Hedwig down on his bedside table to keep her out of harm's way. "Stay here girl; I'll go make sure everything is ok. If you hear a scream go get help." Harry whispered to the owl before cautiously padding back to the entrance and ventured into the dark corridor.

After carefully investigating all the upstairs bedrooms, Harry delicately maneuvered down the pale Ash-wood stairs – tiptoeing past the more creaky portions — to find the house completely devoid of life with no signs of forced entry, muggle or magical. But that begged the question as to how the many chains and locks engineered to keep him detained all summer had come loose.

Harry returned upstairs and examined the outside portion of the door and its numerous latches to be provided with little clues to answer the phenomenon. All the deterrents were perfectly intact and all carrying faint traces of something intimately familiar to him. It lingered just below the surface of the metal, as if hours old… his magic? The same energetic hum of emerald that had bowled through his body not some thirty minutes before, now licked at the metal as if tasting its handy work.

Could he have somehow opened the door wandlessly without being aware? Hedwig's cage as well?

Farfetched as it may have seemed, that was the only plausible scenario Harry had at the moment. And the only one making much sense compared to that of his other options of Death Eaters breaking in, unlocking his door, just to leave without so much as a "how do you do" cursing session, or the Dursleys magnanimously setting him free out of the goodness of their black, little hearts.

Looking down at the industrial lock lightly reacting to the proximity of his hands, Harry searched his mind for the memories of the moments before he blacked out. Intent, he was thinking about magic and intention, and all the things he wished to do when he left his room. But was intent all you needed? Was there something more to it, like visualizing your actions or clearing your mind? And could he somehow repeat it now, or had it been accidental bout like childhood magic?

Stepping back from the door and his squalling thoughts on the questionable feat, Harry resolved to think of the matter later. He still had his trunk to free from the locked recesses of the cupboard and he could test his limited theories then. First he wanted — no needed — a nice, long shower with boiling hot water and tons of glorious soap and cleaner for his hair.

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Harry stood under the sluicing water for over a quarter of an hour, messaging cramped muscle and trying to enjoying the feeling before repeatedly scrubbing at his skin with the cheap, flower scented soap. Cleaning his scummy hair took three lathers of the bottles of complimentary hotel hair-care product his Aunt had stocked under the sink for the more undesirable guests that intruded on her humble home before finally coming clean.

Before his trip into the shower a panicked moment had been spent rushing around the house like a loon attempting to find the date. His cousin had tauntingly stated that he and his friends would return late Monday night and Vernon and Petunia were due back sometime Tuesday and he had had no clue as to what the day was. But after a quick trip through the hundreds of channels the Dursleys sported on the telly he had learned it was late noon on Sunday the 14th.

Three days was all that he could think about as he continued his shower. They had left him abandoned in that hazardous room for three whole days; with nothing but a few tin cans of food and a styrofoam cup to use the bathroom in. Sure, he had fared worse as a small child locked away in his dark and dingy cupboard for days at time, but back then that was all he knew.

The small, murky confined space with its dust coated floorboards, splintering wooden beams, and spider-web laced decorations was all his little world consisted of outside the tyranny of his much larger relatives. It was the home he had been denied: cool darkness to sooth his blistering wounds, and loving shadows to hold him and hide him from his raging uncle.

But things were different now; he was different. Imagined, epic battles against the invading arachnid army of the northeast corner and stumbling his way through War and Peace could not keep his adolescent mind sane like it had when he was younger. Time alone was well and all, every once in a while, but not for three whole days. Just look at the trouble he had gotten himself into because of it.

The starchy, burgundy towel was abrasive against his raw, flush skin but under the blissful high of being clean after so long without access to a proper shower, Harry hardly noticed. Getting dressed with more unwanted, oversized Dudley apparel — with pants secured to bony hips with a piece of rope playing the part of a belt – the refreshed Gryffindor exited the tiny room. Wrapped in a billowing cloud of quickly cooling water vapor, he contently padded barefooted down the hall and back to his _gracious_ accommodations — running the damp towel gently over his still dripping locks and humming a quiet tune he could not remember the name to.

Sending a small smile to the drowsy Hedwig, Harry plopped down onto his unmade cot – abused springs protesting the abrupt motion — and continued absentmindedly dabbing the cloth at his tangled hair, thinking over what his next move should be.

He could not stay here and wait for Dudley, or better yet, Vernon and Petunia, to get back. That much was certain. Not with the state of his destroyed room and the mysterious open locks dangling accusingly from his door. Vernon would go ballistic knowing the freak was out of its cage and would most likely have a heart attack or a pulmonary embolism – maybe both — and Petunia a conniption from him running free, unchecked, in her home.

So that meant leaving after retrieving his school trunk from the locked cupboard downstairs and finding a place to stay for the remainder of the summer. And that was a whole different can of worms. He somewhat had a notion of how to repossess his schools thing, but if wandless magic failed him, he would have to do it the muggle way. That entailed hours scouring the house for something thin, yet sturdy enough that he could use to try and pick the lock. Not something he was looking forward too.

But getting out was just the start of it; where did he go once he left and how would he get there?

Harry guessed he could take the Knightbus to London and venture into Diagon Alley; maybe get a room at the Leaky Cauldron and stay there for the rest of the break like he did in his third year. But the jostling crowds of uncaringly nosey masses swarming the popular shopping district and gateway-inn to the magically world threw the shy Potter off that idea. He had had enough trouble for one summer and just wanted to spend the rest of it in anonymous bliss.

Thoughts of going to stay at Grimmauld Place were quickly shot down. Sirius was still an open wound and staying within the Black estate would be nearly impossible for him at the moment. The Order would only try and return him back to the safety of bloodwards and seeing the Headmaster right now would only drudge up questions Harry knew he would not receive satisfying answers for.

No, he would be better off finding some inconspicuous, hole-in-the-wall inn to stay in for the remaining months before school, one well off the beaten path where no one would ask any questions and he could spend his time catching up on school work. But the only magical inn that Harry knew of was the Leaky Cauldron. He thought he remember someone mentioning one in Knockturn Alley, but being seen approaching or staying within the shady alley would only fuel unwanted rumors he could ill afford at this time.

With nothing else coming to mind, the teen put the issue aside to figure out once he arrived in the alley. Damp towel draped over narrow shoulders, Harry stood from his bed, having decided on his next course of action: opening the lock to the cupboard and retrieving his possessions from inside.

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Fingers thrumming with agitation on the floor, Harry ran all his previous attempts of wandlessly unlocking the small door through his mind once again to try and oust a new idea. He had tried focusing all his thoughts on the portal opening and placing his hands in different positions once again after trying to amass intention failed. The teen swore he must have pulled a muscle or looked like the world's most constipated fool whilst attempting to clear his mind with Occlumency and throw the sheer force of his stubborn will at the recess, yet nothing happened, again and again.

Harry sat slumped down in the hallway, staring up to the ceiling and hoping for sudden inspiration. Intent was the key; he knew that, but how to get intent to work? Hell, what did the word even mean really? What was he missing now that he had had before? Thoughts, ideas, and memories trudged through his consciousness, some relevant and many inconsequential ramblings of his teenage mind.

An idea suddenly springing on him, Harry slowly sat up and brought slender fingers around the solid form of the polished lock, cradling it in his hand. Closing frustrated eyes and calming his mind, not trying to empty like in his previous attempts at Occlumency, he thought on why he desperately needed this lock open. The raven-haired youth knew it was imperative that he leave this place. He could not be caught out of his room when Dudley returned but he could not leave his things behind, especially his holly wand that was trapped deep inside his trunk. There was no telling what dastardly deeds Vernon would do to his _unnatural and freakish things_ thinking that his nephew had left unexpectedly, or better yet, been kidnapped.

'Would probably build a bonfire in the backyard with them and get drunk off his fat arse.' Lost in anxious thoughts about his burning possessions and endangered escape from the Dursleys, Harry almost missed the unique shiver wind down the length of his arm and into the lock clutched loosely in his fist. It was the metallic sound of metal grinding against metal and the click of the mechanism giving way that broke him from the hold of his pessimistic thoughts.

Harry's head snapped down so fast the world perilously tipped on its oblong side and his neck let out an audible crack as he tried to focus his spinning, green eyes on the door. The metal hoop of the lock was dangling open within its cradle, swinging back and forth hypnotically from where Harry unexpectedly released it in surprise.

Crawling closer, the astonished wizard uncertainly brushed the calloused pads of his fingers across the faintly glowing steel. A warm, familiar feeling buzzed down the distal limb, causing the thin hairs of his arms to rise and gooseflesh to pimple the pale skin of his forearm. The faint glow dissipated and Harry stared at his tingling fingertips in wonder. He knew the feeling of the magic. He had felt it every waking minute of every day for the past fifteen years. It was unmistakably his magical signature. But seeing, and feeling, that indentifyingly unique presence on the opened padlock meant that he had released the mechanism without a wand and no incantation.

Wandless, nonverbal magic, and he had preformed it consciously this time. It was magic that he had learned over the years was performed mostly by small children and dubbed Accidental. To cast a wandless and nonverbal spell was a feat that became unmanageable by a large majority of wizards with the introduction of a wand and the stabling of one's magical core. An adult witch or wizard had to be in an extremely emotional situation to possibly accomplish the act, and even then, they would collapse from magical exhaustion afterwards from the tremendous strain on their core. The only exception he knew of was magically potent individuals like Albus Dumbledore and Voldemort.

Yet twice now – three times really if you counted Hedwig's cage – he had cast the wandless form of _Alohomora_, but how? Eyes closed once more, Harry skimmed the surface of his subconscious mind as he thought back, focusing on his intention of opening the locks to either save himself or his trapped possessions…

A sudden flicker of light out of the corner of his lidded eyes drew his awareness. It was strange sensation just out of his short, mental reach — like a shapeless word on the tip of your tongue — that flared up at his purposeful thoughts. But every time he tried to concentrate on it, its formless shape would blur and dissipate. Repeating the experiment worked with varying degrees of success, and seldom could he watch it out of his peripherals while it danced and shimmered like the sun's rays breaking through a shifting canopy.

Deciding to test a theory, Harry remained hovering near the radiance and thought about all the times as a young child he had desperately wished for a light to illuminate the shadowy recesses of his cupboard during the twilight hours. Minutes passed and many attempts were met at failure, but he remained undeterred.

Trying once more, Harry enforced his will with the emotions he remember having as a child being forcefully locked away with little food, nothing to soothe his hurts, and no visibility to assess his newest injuries by. Quickly twisting into a new shade and pattern, the simmer glowed momentarily and the wizard opened astonished eyes to witness a diming light flicker out like a candle in the cupped palm of his hand.

Joyfully laughing, green eyes sparkling in wonder, Harry repeated the action several more times, latching on to the raw sensation and trying to memorize its every nuance. The small, weak globes of light lasted a little longer with each evocation before winking out of existence, but the spell became easier and more fluent with each cast. Their usefulness in a practical application was questionable, and could barely compare to that of a _Lumos_ cast by a first year's wand, but the wide-eyed teen was enamored by them. Each successful channel he could feel himself fractionally orbiting closer to the phosphorescence and he figured it was like a muscle that had to be trained and repeatedly worked to retain its strength.

And like every new muscle, it quickly began to tire.

Energy thinning and adrenaline at his discovery dying down, the mounting ache in his head made itself known with one flare after another.

Harry, leaning his head against the wood's lacquered surface and rubbing counter-clockwise at his agitated temples. He swore he could hear the distant sound of roaring and splintering tree-bark in his ears and his body shivered in remembered pain as the light he theorized to be his ability of wandless magic mysteriously flickered and died at the sounds.

Opening his eyes, the teen absently wondered at the strange event and if he had a pain reducing potion tucked away in his trunk by any miracle.

Fumbling fingers scrambling to get the lock off and the jammed door open, Harry came face to face with the dark, narrow space he spent the first decade of his life living in. Curiously staring into the shadowed space and trying to engineer a plan to remove his tightly wedged trunk out without the use of magic, the teen sat quietly in the mouth of the miniature doorway. Pictures of stick fingers on scrap-paper still decorated the beams supporting the stairs above, the mangled baby bed mattress still laid haphazardly stuffed into the far corner, and the ever-present, choking dust and dirt coated the floor looking like a thin layer of freshly fallen snow.

Seeing no other course of action, Harry launched himself at the luggage like a man on a mission, determined to manhandle it out with his lackluster strength. Finally managing to wrangle the large, cumbersome trunk from within the staircase's disagreeable underbelly, vulnerable toes dancing out of its way with every shunt of its corners, the young man saw one of his favorite pictures as a child lying folded-over itself in the somewhat clear square of the floorboards the trunk had been sheltering. Bending down to pick it up, the teen chuckled at what he saw.

A brown crayon colored Hogwarts stood almost teetering off the side of a lime-green cliff, and in the skies above the school were penciled stick figures striding large brooms. Coming from the door of Hogwarts was a white breaded man in loud purple and yellow robes, wearing a tall pointy hat. And at the bottom there was a thin man cloaked in scribbled black with large red eyes pointing a stick at a small, green-eyed Harry – complete with lightning bolt scar, a shock of black hair and all.

Harry had forgotten all about this picture. It was a little unnerving how accurately he drew everything in the scene at such an age. Not that the picture would win any art contest – the thing was horrible in terms of aesthetics — but for a child that had not seen Hogwarts, Dumbledore, or Voldemort since he was fifteen months old, the picture was oddly correct. Child Harry had gotten just about everything right: to the number of towers Hogwarts sported, the Black Lake quaintly laying in front of the school, and even down to the blaring colors of Dumbledore eccentric attire. He even thought he had seen the old man wear those same robes once last year.

Absentmindedly questioning the cognitive skills of one year old toddlers, Harry gently lowered his trunk down off the damaged side Vernon crowded it into the cupboard on and braced himself as he opened the protesting lid with a rusty creak.

Complete, utter chaos greeted him. Jagged, glass pieces of broken inkbottles, snapped feathered quills, and aging potion ingredients made up the large majority of the debris. Dried ink painted numerous articles of his hand-me-down clothing, previous years' textbooks, and other assorted knick-knacks along with the sides of the wooden trunk a deep black. It ruined almost all it touched, considering the underage wizard could not use magic to remove the deep-set stains.

Harry gently shut and locked the scuffed, brass clasps of the tattered lid with a huff. Deciding to go through the mess while in his room where it would be almost indistinguishable from the rest of the nameless stains on his floor and not his Aunt's impeccably clean carpet.

Getting the hefty weight up the narrow staircase was another daunting task altogether. After much pushing and shoving, Harry finally managed to maneuver the wonky casket onto the dingy carpet of his bedroom, collapsing in exhaustion over the lid — almost losing his glasses in the process — and inadvertently leaving behind black scuff marks and scratches up and down the pale wooden stairs.

With his muscles trembling, breathing labored, and a thin sheen of sweat coating his brow, Harry fumbled his way off the trunk and turned a triumphant, toothy grin in Hedwig's direction, arms spread open, presenting her with his prize. Yet the sleepy owl only rolled amused, golden eyes at her young chick and returned her head back under the sheltering underside of her wing to continue her rest.

Releasing a light chuckle at his familiar's obvious lack of enthusiasm, Harry set to work.

The Gryffindor spent well over an hour shifting through the salvageable and unsalvageable remains of his trunk, making note of what he would have to replace, and cleaning as much of the ink as he could off the sides and bottom of the wooden case with an old shirt and tap water. He reminded himself to not go the cheap route and buy breakable inkbottles next time.

After deeming the trunk usable again, he neatly stocked it with his leftover possessions and went to retrieve his most important treasures from under his bed.

Hidden away from the spiteful eyes of the Dursleys, under a loose floorboard tucked away in the far corner, was the treasure trove of the Boy-Who-Lived. The meager belongings consisted of a well-thumbed through photo-album with a young, dancing couple on the front surrounded by a torrent of falling, autumn leaves. There was also a diamond shaped piece of reflective glass, a threadbare, blue baby blanket with the initials HJP embroidered in yellow thread, a small golden key crudely attached to a dirty shoelace, and a creased picture of three smiling friends—all gingerly wrapped up within the confines of his father's invisibility cloak.

Generally, Harry's phoenix feather wand would have accompanied the items to their sequestered hideaway, but as soon as Harry stepped across the foreboding threshold into Number Four, Vernon had descended upon him, demanding the unnatural stick be presented to him so he could make sure it was locked away — _safely kept from the reach of the freak_.

Turning away from his troubled thoughts and back to the priceless bundle in his hands, Harry rearranged the items tightly within the folds of his father's cloak and reverently placed them into the special space he had cleared. After the more important items were added Harry stood from his crouched position and tried to think of anything else from his room or the house he wanted to add before leaving. He never had adequate time to determine if he had everything he needed – or wanted — before being unceremoniously pushed out the door by an antagonizing Vernon or bustling Order members every summer.

Harry decided to bring along the exhausted miniature dragon statue in case he never returned here, Voldemort's letter least someone from the Order discover it, and the ten year old drawing of Hogwarts, Dumbledore, and Voldemort.

Tucking away his new treasures, Harry added a few new additions of Dudley's holey clothing, then collapsed Hedwig's magical cage after shaking out the few pellets inside and threw it on top before closing the lid tight and locking the brass clasps down. He stored his one-of-a-kind wand into one of the _fashionably_ large pockets lining the pants he wore along with a small pouch of galleons.

Harry took one last look around the room and debated the merits of leaving the window open so some nasty critter might crawl in and infest Petunia's home…hopefully one carrying lots of creepy crawlies like fleas and ticks. But he felt for whatever poor, curious animal that might wonder in and be put through the trouble of meeting his relatives and closed the stubborn thing anyway.

A light meal before leaving was next on the agenda after carefully ferrying the lighter trunk back down the steep incline of the stairs. Going down was somewhat easier than pushing the weight up against gravity. That was until Harry lost his grip and the trunk went thumping down the staircase, sounding like an overenthusiastic Dudley at Christmas time. Harry cringed at the deep gouges in the wood and rends in the floral wallpaper the out of control trunk had caused. Petunia was going to be furious, and that was all the more reason to make a swift departure and hopefully never return.

The kitchen was unsurprisingly well stocked with food, shelves spilling forth with an abundant amount of greasy chips, sugary drinks, and fat inducing pastries.

Harry figured that his Aunt and Uncle were under the impression Dudley would have obediently stayed put for the weekend like the good boy he was, because there was no way this food would have graced these shelves if they had even the slightest doubt the freak might have escaped out of his room.

Making a small sandwich from the butcher's shop worth of cold cuts stored in the fridge, Harry uncomfortably sat at the low kitchen table. Even if the table sported four chairs, the three person family had never allowed him to sit there. Not that he minded so much with the gaping noises Dudley and Vernon produce while shoveling food into their mouths like swine at a trough. Young Harry had always entertained the idea that they might unexpectedly eat one of their hands or swallow a utensil without ever noticing.

Smiling at his thoughts and the prized bounty before him, Harry hungrily bit into his club sandwich. Blissfully closing his eyes at finally having decent food… and abruptly choked, eyelids flying open in surprise.

Immediately spiting the bitter mouthful back out onto his plastic plate, he stumbled back out of his chair – knocking the seat to the linoleum floor — and over to the sink faucet to rinse the unexpected taste out of his mouth.

Several heaving gulps later, Harry wiped the remaining water from his face with the neckline of his shirt and turned. Removing the stubborn, dripping hair blanketing his vision, he stared dumbfounded at that scattered mayhem of his meal. The meat and vegetables had all been within date and nothing smelled rotten, but the taste… the taste had been horrible, so bitter like strong, ripe olives.

Confused, the teen experimentally took a small piece of the toasted bread into his mouth and hesitantly chewed — face screwing up at the prospect of reliving the experience again.

Nothing—the bread had no taste at all, his taste buds just registered a mushy lump within his mouth. Harry then carefully picked through the remains of his sandwich, finding some ingredients to be devoid of flavor or very little taste at all. It was when he got the turkey and ham that his mouth exploded with the bitter taste again, causing his eyes to water and his gag reflex to trigger.

Bewildered and a little frightful, Harry ransacked the rest of the kitchen finding much of the same results. Salty foods were lip-puckering sour, sugars were so bland they might as well have had no flavor at all, fruits and vegetables ranged from one extreme to another, and meats were inedibly bitter to his abused palette.

Stomach seething at its continued empty state, Harry dejectedly ate what little had retained some of its flavor and some of the things that had no taste at all. Returning to old habits, he cleaned the kitchen while lost in his spinning thoughts.

Muses of it being a prank of some kind were defeated by the knowledge that the food was for Dudley and it would have been too elaborate of a prank for his cousin to plan and execute. Scenarios of the food getting too hot and spoiling were ruined by the knowledge that the packaged foods he tried were unaffected by the heat and that it never reached that sort of temperature up in his non air-conditioned room, least of all the rest of the vented house.

Taking one last look at the spotless kitchen, he shook his head; unable to logically explain away the matter and hoping that it was just an isolated incident. Harry did not want to admit, even privately to himself, that if there was nothing wrong with the food, then there must have been something wrong with him. He flipped the switch to the kitchen lights and prepared to leave the desolate house and step uncertainly back into the wizarding world.

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**AN: **Please review. No recommendations this week, too lazy.


	9. All the King's Men

**Disclaimer**: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**AN: **Thank you once again for your kind reviews and I apologize for the late chapter. Beta decided she would go to the beach for a week and ended up having very limited access to the internet. HA HA Estalita! Btw, she has a story for you guys that she will be posting soon. Keep an eye out for that.

To address any who care to know, this story will continue to be posted here on FF. At the current time THF has no risky material in it that may breech the guidelines and it will be kept that way for this website only. I intend to post my story on AFF (dot) net whose chapters will hold the risky scenes and there will be a note at the beginning of any chapter that is missing said content telling you where to find it should anyone care to read it. That is not to say the story here on FF will turn into a Hufflepuff. I intend to skirt the guidelines as much as possible with gore, language, tasteful kissing/groping, and Voldemort just being himself.

I do not agree with what FF is doing and If you believe a favorite story of yours is under risk, download the program FanFictiondownloader and save it. I would suggest sending an email to the author just in case but we all know how they tend to fall off the world at times, but hey, at least you tried. Hopefully they will wisen up and reinstate the MA rating with some kind of age verification page and this will all blow over soon.

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Too Have Fallen

All The King's Men

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It had been an uncommonly dry and fevered summer, and despite the weatherman's prophetic claims that relief was on its way, the heat persisted. Hot winds kicked up loose sediment and debris, plucking it from the stability of the ground and into the uncertainty of the air before dropping it discourteously along its shifting path. The dying leaves on the parched tree where Harry sought shelter fluttered in the heated breeze, crinkling and crushing together before losing the strength to hold onto their wooden perch and sailing off into the currents in their untimely demise. Simmering thermals of heat rose up from the skillet-like, grey metal of the playground equipment, warping the view of cookie-cutter houses peppering the background and completing the image of his childhood hell. The deserted scene with its parched yellow grass and empty streets reminded him of the old western movies Dudley liked to imitate when he was younger. All that was missing was the tumbleweed bounding across the desolate landscape and two lone gunslingers ready to battle it out at the stroke of noon.

To enact the second phase of his Houdini-worthy escape plan, Harry had collected the dozing Hedwig and his things - relocking the bedroom and cupboard door on a Marauder's whim – and left for the neighborhood playground down the street. The accustomed few blocks worth of a trek was twisted into a torturous journey by the blistering and unwavering glare of the summer sun and the infamous words _Constant Vigilance_ ringing in his ears. Each step breeched upon the baking sidewalk with his trunk's metal corners spitting occasional strings of sparks and scraping loudly against the concrete behind him and a Snowy Owl hitch-hiking on his smarting shoulder had been a test in his overtaxed endurance. More so, the sudden, drastic change in environment from the cool temperatures of the Dursleys' home and the outside world had Harry's head sounding a loud beat within its bony dome, skin prickling tight against his straining muscles, and what little he managed to eat sourly rolling about in his abused stomach.

Upon stumbling into the park, Harry sought out the shade of the lone tree that stood brokenly in the miniature play-space and nearly collapsed against the stripped bark of its trunk before catching himself and preventing Hedwig from making contact with the living column. While struggling to keep his lunch from making an upwards exit, he had ungracefully flopped down on one of its exposed roots, abandoning his weathered luggage to topple over into the dirt sending a small cloud of sand rushing outwards and tiny pebbles rocking with its hollow thud.

Trembling hands continuously wiped the streams of beading sweat from his pale brow and the wet, raven strands out from behind his large glasses, all the while checking on his shoulder companion to find her staring at his puffing, red cheeks in worry.

"What do you have to be so sour about hmm…you're not the one who has to do all the walking," Harry teased while lightly tapping the brooding bird on her curved beak and earning a reprehensive nip to his ear for his cheek. He knew what had the mother hen all up in a tizzy: it was too hot and he too weak from prolonged starvation and little exercise to exert himself in such a manner, but there was little to be done about his lack in forethought now. Lugging the cumbersome trunk - even with its lightened load - through the torrid streets had obviously taken its toll, and the nearest source of relief was well across the open, withered expanse of the playground in the form of a dented water fountain he could not recall ever working in the many years he had visited this place. So, staring longingly at the real-life oasis, Harry decided it was best to just to wait it out from under his refuge until he had the fortitude to summon the Knightbus.

Belated thoughts of his numerous use of wandless magic at his relatives' home assaulted his congested mind, and he sat stiffly awaiting a Ministry owl proclaiming his expulsion from Hogwarts for many minutes. Frightfully he darted his eyes to the surrounding skies for any sight of the approaching bird, but after much searching the cloudless expanse and nervous dithering, no such message came. Whether the trace was too weak to detect magic of the wandless sort or the Ministry was amassing some other charges against him to insure their victory this time, Harry did not know, but the suspense was killing him. Not to mention aggravating his sustained injuries and driving Hedwig crazy with all his jumping at every little sound.

Seconds merged to minutes and minutes into too-long for his liking. Having had enough of sitting around fanning himself with his gaping shirt collar and worrying himself into insanity, Harry took the trunk's gritty handle in a sweaty grip and pushed his slight weight off the tree, slightly stumbling in the process to erect himself and keep Hedwig steady, and brushed the unproductive thoughts from his mind, determined to cross that bridge when he got there. He walked out from underneath the protective shade of the tree's canopy and was immediately assaulted by the full, battering force of the summer heat once more. He hurried his steps to a suitable area by the road, somewhat hidden behind the tree and a line of brushes acting as the boundary to the park, propped his trunk beside him, and brushed his clammy palms on the worn plains of his jeans. Taking a cautious look around for any stray muggles, Harry brought out his Holly wand and determinately raised the instrument high in the air like he was hailing a muggle taxi and waited for his summon to be answered.

Uncalculated bouts of time passed underneath the sun's heavy glare, and doubt began to cloud Harry's mind. This would only be his second experience with the magical transport and the last time he had hailed the bus, its boisterous appearance had been almost instantaneous. He was a little embarrassed to be standing there beside the road with his hand straining in the air like a grade-schooler vying for his teacher's attention for no reason, even if there was no one else but Hedwig around to see. Did he only have to raise his wand once or did he have to keep it displayed the entire time? Did the bus only run at certain times or have set routes it in traveled like muggle buses? Pondering the foreign procedures of hailing a quirky, magical coach, Harry fretfully waited, habitually chewing on his lower lip and playing connect the dots with the bony fingers of his free hand and the multitude of holes spotting the lower region his shirt.

Precious more minutes passed with no results. Curiously glancing down both the stretching distal ends of the road, the teen grew anxious that the Knightbus would not respond or that something detrimental might have occurred to keep the transit from running. Standing there with the many unknowns plaguing him, Harry began to grow increasingly more aggravated with his lack of knowledge regarding the wizarding world, especially during the summer months. For all he knew, there might not even be a Knightbus system anymore, and due to him being so distant from the magical community, he would have never figured it out unless Hermione mentioned the news or he had tried to summon it with another witch or wizard around.

Suddenly the tell-tale bang rang out over the quiet neighborhood, scattering the nearby roosting birds to the four winds and almost knocking Harry to his feet in surprise. The infamous triple-decker, purple AEC Regent III RT came stampeding down the paved street, rapidly swerving from one curb to another, running up onto lawns of Privet Drive – postboxes jumping out of the way of the gallivanting behemoth – and almost tipping on its elongated side to straighten its wayward position and avoid parked automobiles. With its numerous tires squealing to keep it adrift and its outrageous appearance loudly clashing with the muggle backdrop, the strange scene made for a truly comical sight only the oblivious wizarding world could provide.

Quickly approaching its targeted prey, the giant, steel and magic contraption came to a screeching halt in front of Harry. Smoke choked the air due to its forceful stop and the wizard could hear the clamorous noise of many objects barreling forwards and impacting to the front of the vehicle as Newton's First Law of Motion became fact. The folding, segmented doors of the bus promptly swung open with a flap and an unfazed Stan Shunpike dropped out of the entrance to cheerfully greet him.

"Welcome to the Knightbus, magical transportation for the stranded witch or wizard. Sorry for the delay Sir, 'ad a lil mishap in ole Nottin'ham." The acne riddled man said jovially, smiling a snaggletooth grin in his direction while blatantly perusing Harry, his belongings, and the banal muggle area around him. The scruffy man then hunched over and squinted his muddy-green eyes down at him, one hand absently rubbing at the brown scuff of his five o'clock shadow, creating the sound of rubbing two peels of sandpaper together that had Harry inwardly cringing. Suddenly the attendant jerked up straight with a twinkle of satisfaction in his eyes and rudely pointed one dirty digit at the younger man's face. "Oh, I knows you!"

Harry's hope for anonymous entrance back to the wizarding swiftly tanked with Stan's words. He was preparing to beg the man not to say anything when the usher suddenly clapped one large hand on his unoccupied shoulder, nearly tipping him over with the enthusiastic gesture and commenced to preen to himself for his remarkable memory.

"You're Neville Longbottom. Me an' ole Ern picked yous up 'bout this place coup' of years back. I knew I remembered this place! Can't say it looks any betta during the day," Shunpike proclaimed, statement trailing off while he took another unsubtle look around and sagely nodded his head at his own brilliance. Harry stared dumbfounded at the broadly grinning wizard, too stunned at the man's false proclamation of his unmistakable identity to correct him but quickly cranked out a shaky smile as if he had been caught red handed by Mrs. Weasley doing something naughty.

Not that he needed to. The wannabe future Minister of wizarding Britain was already hefting Harry's trunk onto the purple colossus, leaving the bewildered teen and his chortling owl standing outside the doors.

"Suppose you'd be wantin a ride then, yeah? Well com'on Mister Longbottom, let's get you on your way and out of this heat. Don't know hows these Muggles stand it, the poor blokes. It was jus the other day…" The man continued to ramble on in his strong Cockney accent about the particulars of an everyday bus attendant while Harry placed a hand over Hedwig's head to quell her chirping laughter and cautiously stepped onto the humming triple-decker, basking in the magically controlled temperature as he glanced around. The bright, daytime interior of the bus was vastly different compared to that of its nighttime attire. The red velvet curtains over the windows were replaced by golden, household blinds. Candles that should have been lowly burning in elaborate sconces along the walls were now lamps with ruby shades, and extravagantly colored, mixed-matched chairs replaced the four-poster beds usually lining the isles. Chairs that Harry disturbingly noticed were not bolted to the floor.

"Take a seat sir an' we shall be on 'r way. Leaky Cauldron, yeah?" Harry absentmindedly nodded his head whilst trying to pry the sturdiest looking chair he could find out from the jumble of debris crushed against one side of the bus. The splintered remains of several maimed chairs scattered about the hull was not reassuring in the least to the weary duo, looking as if Hagrid had tried, _and failed_, to squeeze his large girth atop every one of them before they collapsed in agonizing defeat. Hedwig gave a low, displeased hoot at the impending disaster - sounding very much like the bird equivalent of a curse - that brought a small, crooked smile to the young wizard's face.

Fighting every step of the way, Harry finally managed to drag his chosen chair to the farthest corner where he believed Hedwig and himself would be safest, and prepared for what he knew was going to be a short but wild ride. He gingerly took the Snowy Owl off his shoulder and placed her in his lap, thin arms creating a protective barrier around her, and with a face set with stubborn determination, nodded his assent towards Stan.

"All ready Ern. Take 'er away!" The manically grinning conductor yelled while talking hold of the silver pole beside him in one calloused hand.

The dozing, old wizard behind the Acme(1) sized steering wheel jumped at the unexpected call of his companion, abruptly threw the doors to the Regent III RT closed and stomped on the gas with a lead foot. The massive bus jerked as its bulging tires fought against the static friction of the road and shot off, pealing down the street of Privet Drive at magically enhanced speeds. The sudden pull of inertia had the pile of chairs and their derelict pieces tumbling down the carpeted aisle and striking the back-end with a resounding clatter.

Harry hunched protectively over Hedwig's swaying form, feeling the claw-footed legs his chair starting to slide about with every jerky turn of the large wheel. This was worse than the nighttime trip he took back in third year. At least then the clamoring beds had been attached to the interior of the vehicle in some fashion. Between the free-roaming chairs and his flying trunk, he was going to be lucky to get out of this alive.

While he haphazardly sailed back and forth, side to side, on the bus' rocky seas, Stan Shunpike infuriatingly stood with one hand holding onto his pole whilst blissfully chatting away with the miniature, owlish man Harry seriously doubted could even see over the dash-board. A sudden, squealing stop in their journey had the sole passenger of the Knightbus and his chair careening to the front, colliding against the shielded wall behind the driver's seat and perfectly in front of Stan.

"Might I inter'est you in a goblet of Pumpkin juice for fourteen sickles or pa'haps a sandwich for two knuts, sir?" The cheery conductor asked, brandishing a tin goblet of dark orange juice and a preserved sandwich on white beard with its innards of lettuce and tomato spilling out from its sides. The wild-haired teen took one look at the offered meal and turned a baleful glare at the man for thinking he wanted anything to eat while being thrown about in such a manner. The man seemed unaffected at the dark look and simply shrugged his tattered-suited shoulder as if it was a regular occurrence. Stan then took a large swig of the juice before placing the cup and plate of food back into a small cupboard behind him.

Whatever was temporarily stalling the bus was resolved and once again Harry went flying towards the back, chair spinning in a centrifugal motion like the teacup ride he had seen Dudley try at the local fair, all too happy to be away from the attendant's side.

The familiar scenery of London with its tall, brick buildings, colorful advertisements, and sprawling populace flew by the flapping window-shades, giving hope to the desperate teen that they were almost there.

None too soon his prayers were answered and the bus jerked to its final stop. Harry found himself thrown back up front like the spinning ball of a yo-yo once again beside a smiling Stan who stared at him with a mischievous, knowing glint in his eyes. A thundering noise caught his divided attention and he looked up just in time to see his trunk skidding down the red carpet straight at him. The youngest Seeker in a century quickly threw his legs out in front of him, bracing himself for impact, and caught the barreling trunk before it could crash into him with his two now aching heels of his feet. With his dark hair strung messily about his face, glasses dangling haphazardly from his ears, trembling legs crushed upwards into a bend between the chair and his trunk, and a bewildered Hedwig hugged against his heaving chest, Harry rightfully swore he was never riding on the metal death trap ever again.

"Leaky Cauldron, Muggle London. That'ill be fifteen knuts Mister Longbottom," Stan delightedly called out as if Harry was not right in front of him, painfully pinned to the chair he was sitting in. The teen could not help but think that the British, magical transit-system had it all wrong. You were suppose to charge a fee to get on the bus not off, but then again, with the way 'Ern' drove, customers might be willing to pay more to hastily depart than board.

Harry clamored out of his titling seat - vision still spinning from the tumultuous ride – and carefully placed Hedwig back on his shoulder as he dug the required amount out of the stripped-sock-turned coin-purse from his jean's sizable pocket. After handing over the knuts, he rescued his trunk from its catawampus position and made his way towards the exit, passing the wildly blinking driver with bifocals ten times worse than his own glasses on his way out the door. His trunk had just cleared the last elevated step, when the doors flapped closed and the triple-decker sped away, off to pick up its next unfortunate, lost soul with a bang.

"Never again girl, be it the floo, Apparation, or a bloody flying carpet, we'll find some other way next time," Harry said quietly while fixing the errant strands of his dark hair, correcting his wayward clothing, and retying the loosened rope holding up his expansive jeans that were becoming dangerously close to slipping right off his slender hips. Slightly leaning against his stationary trunk, trying to collect his wits and ignore the awakened pains plaguing his body, he took a tentative look around at the unfamiliar area he now found himself in for threats and to appease his curious nature.

The run down portion of muggle London where the Leaky Cauldron made its home was not the most welcoming place one wanted to find themselves in for very long. Broken bottles littered the cragged streets and other destitute bits of trash braved the summer's heat while, not too far away, a lone factory whistle called out a taskmaster's song for its tolling minions to return to their labors.

Orienting himself with his surroundings, Harry began to make his way around the corner towards a grungy alleyway separating the two brick buildings. Setting down his trunk, he flicked the locks open and removed the simple black robe laying on top that he had set aside just for this occasion. Hedwig was placed on a metal armature nearby while he shrugged the dark covering on quickly before a wandering muggle passed by. He then latched his luggage closed, taking up its handle again, and returned the owl back to her perch

Preparations complete, Harry turned back to the street, walking the few steps towards the misleadingly abandon building's door and momentarily paused there. The underage wizard was just praying that the light was low enough and that the patrons were too far into their drinks to notice a lone person pass by and into the alleyway. Making sure that his scar was adequately covered by his shoulder-length hair and the drawn-up hood of his robe, Harry grabbed hold of the heavy, cast-iron handle and entered the building with the tinkling of a bell.

Worries were for naught, as the popular bar's crowd was otherwise distracted with loudly cheering the name "Colleen" and egging-on a drinking competition at the far corner of the inn between a large, breaded man and a heavy-set, red-headed woman. And, by the looks of it, she was drinking the poor sap under the table. Tom was busy refilling flagons left and right, handing them out to his catcalling patrons and supplying the contestants with new brews just as fast as they could chug them down. Celebration rang high into the wooden rafters as the lumbering man toppled out of his chair and crashed onto the floor in a dead faint. The burly woman then slammed her empty goblet onto the table in a blatant exclamation of her victory and proceeded to let out a wavering belch that stunned the audience for a few seconds before they renewed their cheers raucously. The defeated opponent was carelessly rolled under a nearby table to make room for another, gleaming coins changed numerous hands within the boisterous crowd, and a new contestant plopped down before the great lady to test his worth, receiving wild calls of glee from his fellow man and jeers from the few woman in the mob.

Seizing the opportunity of their continued distraction, Harry quickly made his way over to the far door, weaving between the low, shaded tables with the coattails of his robe billowing out in his haste and his luggage thumping along with every hitch in the hardwood floor. Thoughts of the Leaky Cauldron's obvious good cheer brought several, unsettling questions to his mind as to what might have happened whilst he was away _visiting_ his relatives. Last that he knew, wizarding Britain was quaking in its boots with the return of their living nightmare, Voldemort. So why such the drastic change in attitude now; what had he missed? Slowing his hurried steps, he took a cautious look around before fully entering the back alley and approaching the deceptively mundane wall, putting the questions on an increasingly lengthy list to be answered later.

Wand drawn from his pocket, the wizard began tracing out the memorized pattern he had learned from Hagrid so many years ago. The sight of the grey, muggle bricks folding back like toppling dominos and the miraculous world of magic being exposed from behind their bland veneer was as powerful now as it was when Harry first saw it at eleven years old. The memory of his first glimpse of the magical realm would never fade from his mind no matter how advanced in years he became and could have been used to conjured a _Patronus_ it meant so much to orphaned youth.

Snapping free from the daze of his thoughts so not to seem like an ignorant outsider to whoever may have been watching, Harry stepped passed the defining threshold and made his way with deliberate steps down the congested, cobblestone streets. Hearing the patterned-stone wall grate to a close behind him, the teen let out a relieved breath at for having actually made it out of the house and past the halfway point of his ill-devised escape plan. Despite his leisurely stride, Harry was on full alert, eyes flickering from boisterous crowds to clamorous vendors preaching their wares, and busy shop windows searching for any potential threats, or worse, familiar faces.

…

Sitting beneath the shade of the café's cool awning, Harry mindlessly sipped at his lukewarm tea and watched the lives of the bustling street goers parade past him. Their ignorant bliss and happy chattering whilst they shopped for random odds and ends raked against his over-exposed nerves. How could they be so trustful and jovial with those around them after everything that had happened recently? Did they not care the Dark Lord was _officially_ back in their midst or that the Ministry was so inadequately prepared to deal with the threat? Or did they know and choose to believe their_ savior_ would gallantly protect them all like some medieval knight in shining armor, that he would valiantly ride in on a gleaming white horse, swiftly slay the villainous dragon, and they would live happily ever-after while the hero shacked up with the swooning princess as his prize? Not bloody likely…

Scenes of the gleeful congregation at the Cauldron and the now blissful masses droned across his mind as he spied what had to be the unfortunate answer to a few of his more boggling questions.

The animated posters dotting the shopping district's shambled, brick walls told a humorous tale to any that saw them and disturbed Harry greatly with their content and obviously false pretenses. They colorfully advertised the Ministry's ongoing campaign against the Dark Lord and protecting its innocent denizens from the Death Eater menace with the powerful might of its award winning Auror corps. The flyers featured various caricatures of a snake-like Voldemort and his clown-faced followers tucking tail and fleeing in humiliating ways, tripping over their ragged robes and scurrying around each other like blind mice in order to escape the glowing wand-tips of larger-than-life-sized men in intimidating red robes embossed with a bold, black M overlaid by golden scales of justice.

Harry had never seen something so idiotic, but the crowds of wizards stopping to chuckle and point at the _bad guys_' dismay fell hook, line, and sinker for the lying propaganda, which caused a simmer of anger to boil low in his gut. But it was the pronounced lightning bolt flashing behind the Ministry's seal of approval before the ad looped back around and their proclamation that its people could rest well at night without fear now that the combined strength of the Aurors and the famous Boy-Who-Lived had the cowardly Dark on the run that ingrained a sense of fury deep within him.

Instead of investing in recruiting or more intensive training procedures for their forces, the Ministry was lulling its people into a false sense of security with these ads that would get many civilians killed as they blithely believed there to be no threat. The people should have been warned to take up measures to protect themselves and their families, not encouraged to mock the dangerous man and his unstable allies. And they misled the masses into believing he endorsed this foolhardy plan by implementing his tell-tale brand along with their stupidity. This grievous misstep would only work well within the Dark Lord's favor as he could maneuver around with very little suspicion from the public and recruit more easily now that any wizard with sizeable intelligence could see the mounting inaptitude that ran rampant with the higher echelons of the Ministry.

Gentle nips at his teacup-wielding fingers brought Harry's attention back from his stressful, mental wonderings and to the Snowy Owl sharing the secluded table reprieve with him. Her golden eyes stared back with benign understanding before she took one quick, mischievous sip of his tea and awkwardly ambled back up his arm towards her shoulder-perch, signaling it was time for them to depart.

Quelling his morose thoughts into something less straining and quietly laughing at her antics, Harry retrieved a few coins from his make-shift bag to pay for his drink and the sugary biscuits that remained untouched on their fancy, ceramic plate. The sound of the few jingling pieces of metal within the old gym-sock told him that he would have to make a trip to the wizarding bank soon if he had any hopes of renting a room for the entirety of the summer break.

Staring out across the covered table and down the bustling streets, Harry noticed the flocks of colorfully-robed wizards thinning as peak shopping hours came to a close. Looking back down at the sparse galleons he had remaining, he decided to take his chances and visit Gringotts now instead of leaving it up to luck that he might have sufficient funding later when he located an acceptable inn. He carefully stood from the decorative, self-cleaning table, took hold of the trunk's worn, leather handle, and set his sights on the large, white mausoleum standing high above the shanty wooden buildings around it like the king of the mountain.

Vendor's desperate to sell the last of their daily wares called out to him in faked pleasant greetings, flashing their collections into his view as to entice him into buying as he passed. Despite the lack of people on the street, it seemed the remaining crowds were bound and determined to collide with him or impede his journey in some way. But regardless of their unwitting attempts to stall him or his trunk's wonky, puttering movements over the uneven cobblestones, Harry arrived at the bottom of the intimidating staircase leading up to the large, bronze doors of the wizarding bank. Taking a bolstering breath and readjusting his slackening hold, he began to scale upwards.

Nearing the top, the sudden pull of his trainer's wayward shoestring from under his weight-bearing foot had Harry toppling over the white-marbled steps of Gringotts' stoop, loosing the grip on his fleeing trunk, and awkwardly careening headfirst into the robed plains of someone nearby.

Hearing the displeased hiss of the unfortunate victim of his clumsiness, the teen quickly backed away and attempted to apologize, only to blindly miss the step behind him, sending him tipping backwards - arms flailing at his sides in efforts in correct his misbalance - and almost falling to what would have surely been his death if not for the darting hand that took a sure hold of his robes, securing him to his spot.

Eyes wide and unblinking, thin body trembling with the dose of adrenalin coursing through his veins at the close call, Harry's chaotic mind spun with the grim possibilities of what might have just occurred if not for the quick actions of the person in front of him. He gathered his wits to properly thank them only to be stumped by the narrowed, disturbingly familiar glare coming from the flinty-blue eyes that meet his gaze.

Trapped in that vexing glower, Harry barely noticed when the man dragged him a few inches to the side – unbeknownst to the youth, out of danger of tumbling to his death again - and released his clothing, causing the teen to sputter as he tripped from his uneven footing and fall painfully on his arse onto the dense step below him.

Rubbing his injured palms and smarting backside, Harry grunted in indignation and bristly raised his head to confront the taller male about the abuse, but was delayed once more as the man and his heckling entourage of two nondescript lackeys continued down the stairs as if nothing happened. Harry's temper flared at the apparent slight, magic dangerously sparking in the air around him, cracking the stone steps of the bank as it built up uncontrollably and escaped the weakening confines of his body without the distracted, young wizard's notice. Foreign, over-encompassing feelings of misplaced bravery and brashness flooded his mental facilities, drowning out his good sense yelling at him to forgot it and check on himself, his belongings, and Hedwig - who was now missing from his shoulder. Something within him just demanded that he attack the haughty, no doubt Slytherin prick that just accosted him, and despite one side of him fiercely arguing that this was a bloody stupid idea, Harry could not help but obey.

"Hey!" Harry exclaimed, quickly clamoring to stand, his dark hair plastered to his sweating face and emerald eyes fevered with recklessness. Rashly, he cried out in effort to stop the retreating group and his brown-haired assailant to sooth his bruised Gryffindor pride by challenging the man in testosterone-fueled hotheadedness. The mysterious fellow did stop, turning to pin him with a look of bored displeasure that only riled Harry's bubbling ire a few degrees more. But it was the sudden encircling onslaught of immense, magical pressure that stilled his heated protest and swept clean through him in an unstoppable wildfire. The scorching magic coalesced tightly around him, molding intimately to his body like the searing coils of a fiery serpent, deafening the raging voice from his mind with its roaring flames, and suffocating his boiling anger with its smoldering temperatures.

Just as it reached the point where Harry was adamant he would be consumed completely by the fire's wrath, it dissipated, leaving the teen physically feeling like a burnt husk standing there on the damaged steps and somehow bereaved with its sudden absence. He was left panting for breath for several minutes, his clothes sticking to him uncomfortably due to his body's beading perspiration and lost in the smoking remains of his scattered thoughts.

After breaking through from the debilitating fog, Harry noticed life ignorantly carrying on around him, seemingly unaware of what just occurred, and that the unusual wizard was missing with the teen left in a quandary as to how long he had been standing there. Within the cooling breeze of the square's low winds, he felt clearer now without his rage clouding his thoughts or hiking up his emotions and somewhat hollow inside, as if something that had been building up before had been forcefully smothered out during the _attack_, as he clutched at the cloth covering his thundering heart, feeling exhausted and strangely… exhilarated at the same time.

Now with a clear head, Harry replayed the blundering altercation and could have kicked himself at how stupid he had just acted. Making a scene in broad-daylight and atop the bustling stairs while he was attempting to lay low was the epitome of Gryffindor irrationality. Surely that was why the two men at the stoic wizard's side could not contain their shaking laughter at his now, deeply embarrassed expense.

A quiet hoot drifted to his red-tipped ears, bringing his oscillating attention to the unharmed Hedwig sitting a few steps above him. While bending down to retrieve her and apologize for his actions, he thought of how his anger and foolishness had obscured her wellbeing from his priorities after their fall when logically checking on her should have been his first initiative. Collecting his trunk from where it had slid to the distant bottom, Harry spared a momentary thought for the familiar, yet foreign blue eyes of the stranger that his subconscious stubbornly wanted to paint red, all the while tormented with the smell of burning, wooden cinders tickling his small nose.

…

The worn rubber of his aged trainers squeaked a childish cadence across the polished floors as Harry entered the great hall of the treasury, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible but failing spectacularly at the simple task. With its towering columns of fluted stone, draping chandeliers of scintillating crystals and wrought gold fixings, and bare earthen walls far in the background, the scraping noise of his trunk's metal corners and quaking footsteps resounded clearly down the hallowed halls, giving away his every move even to the most unobservant of individuals.

Leaning against one of the tall, sculptural joist supporting the impressive building from the inside to catch his strained breath, Harry gathered himself and hastily concocted a plan. His gaze swept the vast lobby, velvet red ropes sectioning off the lines in front of banking windows, and the many goblin employees counting out their golden coins in ill-disguised greed with brass scales and elaborate abacuses. The décor of white, bangled marble and cold, glinting gold instilled a sense of indifference that was only matched by the auras that clung to its many cankerous workers. Not one balding head rose from their stooped position to give the poorly attired wizard another glance after their initial, sneer-inducing assessment of his figure.

Gathering his cloak tighter around him, Harry slowly approached the largest cashier's counter sitting imperiously in the center of the sweeping room with an unsure stride. He had never entered or interacted with the wizarding bank on his own before. There had always been the doting, but forceful, presence of Ms. Weasley or the fumbling words of Hagrid to speak for him. But now he was alone with no clue how to go about talking to the borderline hostile, humanoid creatures.

Nervously coming to a halt before the window, Harry prepared himself to speak to the accountant - who continued to ignore his presence – about making a withdrawal when a quiet, yet strict, gravelly voice interrupted him.

"Mister Potter, we were beginning to think the financial concerns of your vaults here at Gringotts was worth very little of your _magnanimous_ attention since you chose to disregard the many missive we have sent to your person in the past weeks." The goblin's bald head slowly inclined and twin piercing eyes of blackened coal glared down at him from the lofty height of the gilded and marble counter. Cold reprimand for having dared to ignore the summons and whims of the Gringott's goblins glinted behind the sharp metal frames of the glasses the teller wore as the goblin finished his business from before. Ink scrawled parchment was then neatly stacked and fine feathered quills were slowly set aside in their appropriate bottles as if the clerk was in no hurry to assist the lowly creature who stood before it.

Making an attempt to correct the goblin's misconception, Harry was quickly rendered speechless with the full weight of the creature's contempt for him with another evil look and a presented hand signal for him to stay silent. After some time of impatient waiting on Harry's part, a smaller goblin was summoned to the usurer's side and a low conversation commenced, ending with the new goblin being dismissed to carry out whatever orders were given to him. Fed up with being ignored, Harry felt it was time to make his case.

"I'm sorry, but I have no idea what letters you are talking about. I have not received any mail of note from Gringotts, or anyone these past weeks," Harry said, confusion lacing his words while he gathered his Gryffindor courage around him like armor to withstand the goblin's impressive stare and the feelings of unease budding up within him. Why would the goblins try and contact him, and if they did, why had he not received their letters? Voldemort's missive was delivered without so much as a hitch and the Horned owl encountered no trouble returning day after day. 'So what does this mean for any other mail that might have attempted to be delivered?' he thought worriedly whilst nervously sinking his teeth into the tender flesh of his bottom lip.

The agitated click of the accountant's gnarled fingernails against the hard, jutting ledge ceased and the creature bared its pointed teeth in a spiteful sneer down upon Harry at his response. "Are you informing me, Mr. Potter, that you received none of the thirty-six attempts of communication that Gringotts sent out to you regarding your inheritance and the legal, _and financial_, jeopardy your vaults are currently in?"

"Yes sir, I have been, until fairly recently, residing within a residence that is warded against the use of mail owls, _for my own protection, _of course, and I was unable to receive them." Harry almost spat that last part out it felt so poisonous to say and with how much he loathed that string of interchanging vowels and consonants. "If it is entirely possible, I would like to resolve these issues now and make a withdrawal from my account." He just wished to hurry this transaction along, get his galleons, leave the bank, and find an inn to be left in solitude along with his already abundant thoughts.

"I'm afraid, if it is as you say, and you had no knowledge of these important matters, that these _issues_ will not be resolved so easily. Despite the matter of you not receiving the notices, they would have been automatically redirected to your magical guardian for him to undertake the task of informing you personally. You, being the lord of both of the Houses in question, were by law obligated to be informed of the changes and legal actions being taken out against your holdings by any means. So – "

"Wait! No one informed me of any changes or actions, or being the Lord of any Houses in question," Harry loudly proclaimed, hastily interrupting the sniveling voice before it could go any further pointing out the many faults in his knowledge and jabbing holes into his plans.

'This was not how I pictured this little dalliance going,' Harry lamented with hands balled tight around the frontal fabric of his robe, brows pinched in worried anger, and troubled green eyes staring off towards a distance point over the goblin's smartly-dressed shoulder. The teen had no earthly idea what the goblin was implying; his only clue was the Dark Lord's letter referring to him not only holding the title of Lord Potter, but now crowned Lord Black as well. Goblins were only supposed to give him coins, not boggling news about accounts under siege or ridicule in connection with his missing intelligence in regards to his own financial concerns.

The return of the green vested goblin from before drew the wizard's distant attention when it presented a cream-hued envelop to the seated teller and motioned for Harry to follow him.

With one last, anxious glance at the clerk's scornful face peeking over the parchment held in its stubby hands, Harry turned and walked in the usurer's wake. Through a dark cherry, wood door - the Gringott's seal of scrolling dragons, bountiful moneybags, and laden scales intricately carved in relief on its surface - standing unobtrusively to the far side of the lobby and down long, darkened hallways the young man followed his Lilliputian guide.

Slowly the opulence of the building's outer layers morphed into simple furnishings of massive stone and polished wood, opening up to large underground caverns ringing with the reverberated tollings of the many goblins inside. Chiseled, rock walls lined the labyrinth of halls with glimmering gemstones and intersecting veins of raw metals reflecting the soft, blue luminance given off by the glowing crystals acting as torches to guide their path. Harry craned his neck side to side, emerald eyes sparkling in wonder and troubles forgotten as he stared along with the dumbfounded Hedwig at the grand scale of the immense space teeming with life unknowingly beneath the wizarding populace's feet. A large smile threatened to split his face wide at the grandeur, and he much preferred the naturalistic beauty of the earthen caverns than the fanciful rooms of before.

The goblin came to a halt in front of a simple wooden door and knocked three times on its dense surface before being given entrance by the room's inhabitant. Harry's guide opened the door, spoke a few disjointed words in an unknown tongue, and stepped aside from the frame, gesturing for him to enter.

Harry hesitantly approached the entrance and took one look inside before fully stepping into the foreign room. The wizarding equivalent of filing cabinets braced the walls in abundance, a curious devise ticked away in the corner with streams of dotted paper spewing forth from its mouth, and a large wooden desk and two uncomfortable looking chairs occupied the scarce amount of space the room had left to offer. A new voice spoke a few more words to the waiting goblin at the door in what Harry guessed was the goblin language – sounding to him like rocks grinding together - and the creature bowed its head and shut the door, leaving him alone with the strict looking figure sitting behind the desk.

Moments passed as Harry stood waiting for the goblin to give him permission to be seated. Although the impersonal atmosphere and small expanse of the office may have deceived others in believing that the creature entitled very little rank, thus little respect, the teen knew otherwise. Years at the Dursley's taught him to distinguish the subtle, and sometimes the not so subtle, hints at the pecking order of his Uncle's company dinners and his Aunt's tea parties. The point the goblin even had an office was a big indicator, when all he had seen within the extensive tunnels were workers crammed together in small cubicles and rarely ever an actual door. Not to mention the engraved plaque stating the goblin's name to be Steelrick sitting blatantly on the table in what looked to be pure gold.

"Greetings Mister Potter, be seated. We have much to discuss." The craggy tones broke Harry out of his observations and he shuffled his trunk around in the tight space until it was neatly tucked out of sight and slowly sat down in an interrogation-worthy chair. The goblin began to stack large, color coded folders of parchment within arm's reach on his desk, removing the glistening red wax seal from a new bottle of ink, and striking the tip off an unsharpened eagle's feather with a sharp dagger before he pinned Harry with a measuring look before speaking.

"I am Steelrick, Head Overseer of all Noble Houses and Royal accounts here at the British branch of Gringotts. Their inheritance, management, and security all fall under my watchful care. They are the highest profile accounts from the most ancient families in all of Britain, and at this moment, in Gringotts' eyes, you own two of them Mister Potter. One which has nearly been bled dry of all its liquid assets and another under intense scrutiny by the Ministry of Magic. Yet somehow all of this has been kept from your knowledge despite our numerous attempts at contacting you. Please, do inform me on how this came to be." Steelrick spoke in a stern manner all goblins seemed to share but not with the contemptuous sneer of the teller from before, giving Harry hope that he might be taken seriously if he did not bollocks this up and disrespect the creature in some way. He determinately fixed his rumpled clothing, sat up straighter in his chair, fixed his features with the most Slytherin mask of a respectful lord he could muster, and squashed the Gryffindorish tendency to whine like a small child about how unfair all this was and that he wanted an adult.

"It is a pleasure to meet your esteemed person Mister Steelrick, and I wished it was under better circumstances, but as I mentioned to the teller before, I have resided in a safe-house since the beginning of the summer and was unable to receive all mail due to the wards around the property. He mentioned my magical guardian's responsibility in relaying these messages to me in regards to their urgency and delicate nature, but I received no such communication from this man. I must also admit to my own ignorance as to the name of whoever this person might be and ever having had such a guardian, for the position and the man's identity was never made known to me, but I am sure I could hazard a guess. Albus Dumbledore, correct?" Harry tried to remain indifferent while speaking, staring at a point just above the goblin's eyes, and keeping all his emotions bottled up inside and not streaming across his face.

"This is correct. Albus Dumbledore has been your magical guardian since Lord and Lady Potter's death as in accordance to the Wizengamot ruling," Steelrick replied, giving Harry an assessing stare over the dark rims of his glasses as if trying to read whether this, too, was news to the young man.

Thoughts tumbled about his head and he could not keep his confusion from marring his mask in the furrowing of his eyebrows or thinning of his lips. This indeed was news to him. Not that Dumbledore was his magical guardian, because really, that was expected, but that the Headmaster was given that position by the wizarding court and not by the final words of his parents.

"Wizengamot's ruling, not a will?" he asked hesitantly yet without inflection.

The goblin stared a few moments more before acting. Harry could tell Steelrick was feeling him out on where he was missing information and did not like what he was finding if the shift in his indifferent tone was anything to go by. Whether he was angered at him for lacking the knowledge or the persons responsible, Harry did not know. Steelrick flipped through the folder lying open before him, retrieved a half-inch stack of parchment spell-stapled together, and began reading the first few lines under the large, bold heading "Wizengamot Court Ruling".

"By law 31-6-95 and honorable ruling of the Wizengamot Court, the undisclosed will and final testament of James Henry Potter and Lily Marie Potter, nee Evans, shall be sealed and placed into a protectorate vault until the time the Wizengamot deems it safe that the knowledge and last wishes of the deceased contained within the document shall not be used to bring undue harm to one, Harry James Potter. Magical guardianship over the child and Retainer status for the House of Potter's Gringotts accounts shall be turned over to Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, until the time of the child's magical maturity at seventeen or a legal bid for emancipation is obtained." Steelrick finished reading the document and slid the bundle across the table's glossy surface so that the teen might see it.

Harry reached out and took the parchment in one shaky hand, bringing it closer so that he could read the small lettering, and try to understand the ruling that had ordained his fate at such a young age. Much of the legal jargon escaped him and he knew only one name mentioned in the entire stack of paper he looked through, but the resounding implications were not lost on even him. For one, the will of his late parents had not been opened before being sealed away, and two, he and his family's vault had been placed under Dumbledore's care after the events of that Halloween night.

The curious, padding feeling stirred again from the dark corner of his mind and Harry barely spared it a thought as he slowly flipped through a few more stacks of stiff parchment handed to him by Steelrick, and one had his eyebrows escaping into the fringe of his hairline in shock.

"It seems we have much to discuss Mister Potter, would you care for some tea?"

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**AN: **Please review and let me know what you think!

(1) Acme: I am sure everyone has seen the Coyote and Roadrunner or the Bugs Bunny shows featuring the Acme Corporation but just in case. Acme is a fictional corporation that was featured in the old cartoons that made all the anvils, giant slingshots, and whatever craziness that the characters got into. They were generally larger-than-life in size and faulty in their use causing more harm than good to their users.

**Recommended Reading**:

I think I will go outside the box for this chapter's recommendation.

The Chosen One by KCameh.

.LV/DM. Draco was used to teachers and students underestimating his magical and mental abilities, thus he is surprised when he was read like an open book by the Dark Lord. /Slash/

I know what you're thinking, "Omg, is that a Draco/Voldemort story?" Why yes, yes it is. A very good story I might add. One thing I love about this story is Cameh's Draco. No whinny, stuck-up brat here. He is collected, scheming, and dead set on avoiding becoming a pawn for the Dark Lord. The Death Eaters are insane in this one (torture and gore) and Voldemort is very much in character. Problem is the author's updating speed it seems. But hey, Blurby updated days after I recommended "Get Off My Back" to you guys so it might work a second time here. Definitely one to watch out for.


	10. The First Cut Is The Deepest

**Disclaimer**: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**AN**: This chapter is late because I am a notorious procrastinator; case closed. I might not be able to keep up the two week schedule I wanted, sorry.

This chapter is packed full of information so pay close attention my pretties.

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**Too Have Fallen**

**First Cut is the Deepest**

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"Charlus Leonidas Potter (1) was nothing if not an unforgiving teacher to his only descendent James. For years he witnessed and cautioned against the unbridled devotion that shone in his heir's young eyes as the boy naively followed the proclaimed Light Lord. Charlus knew one, not-so-distant day, that that loyalty might be called on, tested for its fealty, _manipulated_, in the form of the Potter Vaults and the family's heritage, or in the form of James' life as a soldier in the absurd vigilante Order Albus was leading. Just as it had countless times before, and no doubt plagues certain individuals to this day," Steelrick coldly stated while crudely washing the youth before him in a flinty stare, thin lips minutely curling in distaste at Harry's haggard appearance and ill-fitting attire.

Unworthy, not fit for one of his elevated status and esteemed blood; Harry did not have to be imbued with the power of Legilimency to pick up on that evident tidbit. Steelrick's mannerisms practically broadcasted his disgust at having one of his wealthier clients grace his office in such a state, and no doubt the goblin blamed his supposed guardian, Dumbledore, for that. And with just the limited amount of information he had gathered so far, and more of which he was bound to learn, Harry could not fault the creature for his acerbic thoughts, for he himself was harboring conflicting emotions towards the grandfatherly Headmaster that grew stronger with every proved accusation. But instead of rising to the goblin's testing taunt and the not-so subtle barb against Dumbledore trailing vindictively from his words and actions, Harry calmly weathered the intense scrutiny on the outside. Inwardly he was struggling to bolster his crumbling resolve for the long discussion ahead and hold his tongue from brashly questioning the goblin's motives by taking another sip of the proffered tea.

Blissfully he sighed, losing track of his claustrophobic surroundings with a slow shuttering of his eyelids as the pleasant warm, liquid traveled down his parched throat. Logically, Harry knew the brew was laced with something, preferably a mixture of some sort of Invigoration Draught and Calming potion, as he hoped the goblins had some vested interest in his survival and had not poisoned it. But at this point, he could have cared less since its refreshing essence melted his tiredness to a more manageable degree and helped clear the cobwebs from his mind. At least for now, anyway, because Merlin knows what kind of state he would find himself in once its affects wore off. Certainly worse than before, since energizing potions were notoriously known to temporarily heighten the system but at a high personal cost to its host, pulling heavily on the body's reserve stores and essentially crashing the drinker after the draught ran its course. But without it, his condition-sans-potion could not have endured the strenuous meeting and retain the critical information he needed; even with his stubborn Gryffindor pride blistering every time he began to nod off.

The energizing rush of adrenaline from the confrontation not a half-hour before on the bank's outer breaches and the initial encounter with the spiteful Gringotts' goblins had been waning thin. So, too, had the boost of pain-suppressing endorphins from successfully escaping the Dursleys and arriving in the wizarding world unrecognized. The potent chemical combination of both stimulates had been performing a remarkable job of deterring his bodily aches and burning away the fog impeding his thought processes. But his exhaustion quickly tipped the scales of his endurance and had come to rest like laden shackles around his throbbing feet and thick chain that weighed heavily on his mind and scrawny shoulders. Added to the fact, there was still the voyeuristic shade poking around in his psyche uninvited. But what little mental fortitude he had mustered to try and squash it must have just tickled, because he had only felt dense clouds peppered with dark humor floating off its vestige as it ambled about his head, focusing intently on his memories of the various documents Harry had shambled through earlier.

Several minutes prior, a tray of soothing, light-brown tea and all its numerous fixings and variable confectionery sides had been wheeled unobtrusively into the cramped room and along with bowls of food and water for Hedwig. The Head Account Manager had wasted little time before fixing a steaming cup for Harry and all but forcing the concoction down his gullet. With a thinly veiled command from the impatient goblin to drink his tea because he refused to repeat himself should Harry's ailing health divided his attention, Steelrick had delivered an ominous warning before regaling the teen with the necessary information he found crucial to building an understanding about the status of his accounts.

"First off, I would like to state that the information I am about to disclose to you is the truth to the best of Gringotts' knowledge. While our networks are vast and multifaceted, even we have our faults, Mister Potter, but seldom are we ever wrong - for being wrong is bad business, you see. Some of our more _questionable_ information regarding the maneuverings, political or societal, that might affect the states of certain high risk accounts in our care comes from very reliable sources and we pay very handsomely for it. We also try to be as thorough as legally possible in our investigations as to how our more distinguished clients' coinage is used when generous amounts are withdrawn by Acting-Lords of Noble Houses – Retainers as they are more commonly known - and not the true Lord of House. But we, as an outside entity to the legal system of Magical Britain, can only do so much. While the Ministry cannot directly interfere in the running of Gringotts, certain bills of legislation can make things excessively difficult for us, especially concerning our cliental that enjoy a higher standard of living or have different cultural backgrounds and beliefs than the acceptable norm. While you might not understand certain ideas discussed with you today, or might balk at their very notion, they are the truth, copied down from an invulnerable quill in the courtroom or witnessed by the very mouths that spoke them."

Harry's mind digested the words as best he could, plucking out the hidden meanings stalking line after line while he had sipped absentmindedly at his second helping of tea. Wizards were innately greedy creatures, and ever the opportunist, the goblins have long since exploited that Achilles' heel to gather what information they could on matters that might affect or be of interest to their wealthy patrons. No doubt this clandestine service had lined many a goblin's pockets when pureblood social coup de tats were masterfully averted or suspect traitors revealed. Even the mighty Gringotts could not escape the tedious meddling of the Ministry it seemed, and their stubby, green hands were tied in how their client' money was used by Acting-Lords of Noble House or when legal action was taken out on certain Dark pureblood accounts. Or so he had gathered, but that brooked the question as to why? If the Dark-purebloods controlled the Ministry why would they propose legislation against their own kin? Or was someone else within the Wizengamot ambitiously targeting them? It also appeared that the goblins collected an excess of proof to back up any important information they gathered and left very little to be refuted when they did. Whether it be unadulterated copies of court records or statements from the very court members themselves; they tended to be thorough. It had left Harry with very little doubt that what Steelrick and the documents said were true, despite how a portion of his psyche had rebelled – faintly roaring in his ears - at the very concept of such backhanded deceit.

After giving Harry time to take in his forewarning, Steelrick proceeded to give him a familial history lessons in regards to his grandfather Charlus and the man's efforts to stave off outside tampering of his family assets - the last reliable Potter in the goblin's opinion, the young wizard summarized. A much needed narrative to begin explaining the perplexing state the Potter vaults were in and the various stacks upon stacks of parchment either were either smeared in red or teeming in legal amendments one after another. All of which confused the Potter heir much to his mounting chagrin.

"But this was not a chance Charlus was willing to take for his son despite the parental love he carried for him. The Potter legacy was far too important for a wayward youth like James to readily relinquish at the behest of a powerful man's ambition - an ambition Charlus and many others believed to be detrimental to their way of life." Harry broke from his earlier thoughts and curiously glanced across the grand, mahogany table at Steelrick as he continued his enlightening tale after pausing for a brief sip of his own tea. The statement had struck a chord of familiarity somewhere within his dusty memory but had been too vague to unearth the thought entirely. It teasingly lingered on the tip of his tongue with the heady taste of spice, colored red and bearing the smell of ciders as Steelrick commenced speaking again.

"Lord Potter, and the untold generations of Potters before him, followed a certain culture almost extinct in this day and age, and despite his, and those of his late wife Dorea's, greatest efforts to instill the same values in their son, James rebelled against them at every turn. The youngest Potter firmly believed Dumbledore's preaching that abandoning these archaic traditions to be the only way to advance to a greater future for all wizarding kind and welcoming Muggleborns warmly into their folds. A very effective tactic against the young James, I'm sure." The wizarding teen knew the goblin meant his mother, Lily. Being a Muggleborn and generally unaccepted by pureblood society, Harry could see how Dumbledore's words could be very tempting for his lovesick father, and James supporting any party that would agree with his marriage of his Hogwarts sweetheart. "Lord Potter understood that James would have to learn this lesson the hard way, for it was the only avenue from which the stubborn adolescent learned, and before his death, took measures to head off any meddling of the family possessions either Dumbledore or the Ministry was bound to pursue once James was convinced to denounce his heritage.

"The Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Potter then ordered Gringotts to seal away the Potter's ancestral grounds of Althea and the vast majority of the Potter's assets into the deepest vaults where none but the true Lord Potter could reach. Upon the doors we were to lay our most deadly curses that would befall upon whomever unworthy or seeking theft of its guarded treasures that may attempt to enter, causing them to perish in agony for their slight against his family. Their bones would forever grace the corridor as a morbid warning to those who might persist where others had fallen. The vaults themselves were to be sanctioned by a guardian whom would only allow entrance to one it believed to be the true heir.

"Charlus then left James with only a few of the upper vaults lined with galleons to live from - a paltry sum in accordance to how much the Potter fortune holds but a great more than most wizarding families shall ever see - only certain books and trinkets to remember his ancestors by, and only one of the powerful artifacts he knew Dumbledore might covet and ask of his son until the time James came to his senses.

"Least to say, Mister Potter, James never had the opportunity to learn the final lesson his father wished to teach him and the vaults remain closed till this day. Yet, many have come forward after your esteemed grandfather's death to claim the title, but none have succeeded thus far."

"I don't understand, I have always been told I am the last of the Potters," Harry questioned, his heart suddenly jubilant at the idea of having a true family out there; somehow unknowing of his present orphaned condition, and waiting with open arms to offer him shelter and a loving home. But that was the hidden, wide-eyed child buried deep within the quivering chambers of his core naively hoping; abandoning all reason at the mere mention of the one thing he wanted most in this world. Dreamt about, wished for, pleaded for… but the disenchanted youth which that small boy he grew to be knew better. He had stopped pinning long ago under the heavy hands of his Uncle and the cruel shrills of his mother's sister. Things just did not work out that way for Harry Potter, and time and time again that statement proved to resonate true.

"Last of the main branch of the Potter Lordship, yes, but not the last of Potter blood. There are currently seventeen Lower Houses that are tied by Potter blood in some fashion and five Greater Houses directly descended from your predecessors. Nine out of those families sent representatives to _rightfully_ claim their title as Lord Potter after Charlus' death and that of James in utter disregard of your birthright as Heir-Apparent," The Head Account Manager replied tightly, a dark tilt to his words.

"So I have a _wizarding_ family out there?" Harry challenged, reaffirming that he had other family out there besides the dreaded Dursleys.

"Family is a rather loose term I would affiliate with most of these _individuals_ Mister Potter. Despite your orphaned state at fifteen months of age and the court ruling to determine your magical guardianship, no objection from their ilk in attendance that day was made when it was suggested that you be governed over by Albus Dumbledore. In efforts to place you in a more unbiased environment, a second vote was proposed by certain skeptical members of the Wizengamot in hopes that a magical blood relation of yours would step forward and take the young Potter heir into their family, but none such spoke in your defense and the notion was passed. After the ruling went through all following objections and bids for guardianship were redirected to your present guardian for perusal," Steelrick brusquely finished, a dispassionate sneer stretching across his aged features as he waved one clawed hand at the bound parchment containing the Wizengamot's Ruling. The cream-hued pages twitched before rapidly fluttering like they were caught in a brisk wind to a certain page before coming to a stop in front of the young wizard.

Harry read through the sprawling paragraphs staining the expensive paper once more, analyzing each previously thought unfamiliar word or name in the new light of his recently obtained knowledge. He could just now catch a glimpse of the whole picture of which Steelrick was referring to. The legal actions taken by the Wizengamot's members that November day were all thoroughly copied word for word by the court's stenographer-quill.

Augusta Longbottom's name and a few others now reached out towards him and evoked weak strings of remembrance that he had missed before in his frantic reading earlier. Alongside Lord Davis, Lady Zabini, and Amelia Bones, the guardianship of his person was questioned by the Longbottom matriarch before the final ruling of the court was issued. A call to shelter one's blood was vehemently issued by the lordly woman to all Houses that claimed blood relation to House Potter present in the crowded chamber, but as Steelrick expressed prior, none answered. And with the last of the objections put to rest, the ruling was finalized and he became the ward of Albus Dumbledore with all rights and privileges over the Potter Vaults falling under the Headmaster's whims. A few of request for change of guardianship were documented after the trial by what appeared to be Houses not in attendance that day, but all were denied for some reason or another.

"Why? Why didn't they speak up or take me in?" Harry sadly asked aloud, distant bitterness dotting every I and childish hurt crossing every T. Darkened-emerald eyes floated up from the swimming print of the ruling's anti-climatic ending, peeking over the furled hump of the document's previous pages, and coming to rest on Steelrick's face in a last ditch effort to prove the prevailing motto of his life wrong. The young man's unvoiced desperation swam in their green depths as his somber thoughts barreled through his head. He did have a family out there, quite a few in fact, and they had known of his predicament but had chosen to leave him with Dumbledore. They had essentially washed their hands of him like an unwanted burden. The thought that someone at least had the decency to object to the decision or had tried to gain guardianship over him were the only things keeping his seething anger from slipping the reins of his control and not whipping a violent whirlwind through Steelrick's unsuspecting office. Already in the air surrounding him, the beryl currents of his magic – having been smothered down from the encounter on the stairs to a placated degree - were leaking out from his body and affecting the room: curling once-starch papers, rattling costly bottles of ink, and whisking at his mused hair and clothing.

"For some, their right for representation at the court ruling was outright denied by the Ministry due to alleged, Dark cultural practices or the Wizengamot's summons were regrettably issued too late for the family to arrive in time. For others it was a simple matter of financial legality for them, Mister Potter. They believed that after a certain period of time had passed and you continued to neglect taking your rightful title of Lord Potter, as they were certain you would do being under the influence of your… _renowned_ guardian, your claim could be challenged by law and they themselves could be given the Lordship. With that they would hold the vast fortune and political power of the Most Noble and Ancient House in their hands and claim what they assumed was an endless treasure trove of valuable artifacts sealed away in Althea. But the crafty Albus Dumbledore was always one step ahead of them, and luckily for yourself, Charlus Potter a league ahead of them all.

By making himself your guardian and the Retainer for your position as Lord Potter, Dumbledore had direct control over the Potter vaults and the family's powerful _seats_ in the Wizengamot. In the first years following the ruling and your parents' deaths, Dumbledore interfered little with the vaults, only ordering an inventory be taken and inquiring about the deeper vaults once he learned of them. He did, however, use the Potter family's seats within the Wizengamot to pass a few - at the time - innocuous laws regarding the rights of Heir-Apparents and the Retainers who governed over them. The crafty old man played it off as favorable protection for you and many readily rallied behind him as he continued to propose more laws for your safety. Only after a series of the bills had been passed, many building on top of one another to strengthen previously unforeseen clauses, was it discovered that Dumbledore was virtually stripping Heir-Apparents of their political and financial rights as Heirs until they came of age in by Wizarding law, even going so far as to propose the Wizarding age of inheritance be advanced to the age of twenty-one. Many of his supporters faltered and demanded answers, but the silver-tongued politician charmed them once more with his vision of a peaceful future and wanting to spare their young savior the trouble of dealing with the heavy burden that came along with being the Lord of a Most Ancient and Noble House until you were ready for the responsibility, and so the man was allowed to continue. Those that still questioned his authority were promptly gifted with lavish tokens of respect and good will provided by the very House the laws were targeted to weaken: yours."

Another stack of parchment was placed before his flummoxed person, and Harry uncertainly reached out for it and brought it closer for inspection. The dates were innocent enough and of no importance to him, but the large sums of galleons being removed suddenly at the end of March one year and then sporadically over the following months and years were a damning testament to Steelrick's allegations.

Two thousand galleons here, eight thousand there, over twelve thousand in the span of four months in the year 1986 alone - all dotted with lesser withdrawals and even smaller, annual deposits in between. It was dizzying to see all the seemingly innocent numbers snowball on one another until there was an avalanche barreling down the pages and crashing at the end with a resulting balance that was significantly lower than that of when the financial statement started. Some grander withdrawals had entries beside them, one or two lined sentences detailing on how the money had been used, and others had a colored asterisk implying that much larger reports were to be found in an accompanying documents. It all pointed to a foreboding conclusion Harry feverishly wished to be untrue. A betrayal of this size would cripple his trust in others not to mention eradicate any remaining confidence he still fostered towards Albus Dumbledore.

The on-looking shade shifted about his turbulent thoughts in ill-disguised interest unbeknownst to the distracted youth. Harry hunched over in his chair in efforts to think. Sharp elbows clashing painfully with his bony knees as they perched there, skinny fingers buried in his dark, tousled hair, and his eyes clamped tight to try and keep the malicious world at bay. His mind was a squalling sea of emotion and his tiny skiff of sanity rocked violently back and forth. Every memory of every conversation ever held with Dumbledore was replayed and examined for any hints of treachery, and once encouraging, yet cryptic words were unscrambled and edited for dishonesty. Everything he had ever known about the man was dredged up from the deep, laid out in the foaming waters before him and investigated with a critical eye. And Harry candidly confessed to himself that he knew very little about the enigmatic Headmaster he repeatedly put his budding faith in. Yes, over the years, that apparently unwavering conviction had been tested and strained. Even lessened this last year to a considerable extent when Harry glimpsed the hardened, somewhat ruthless man hiding behind that flashy, compassionate mask, but the orphaned teen still continued to carry a torch of respect for the man. Even Voldemort's words of callous caution had not shaken his credence in his belief that, in the end, no matter the secretes kept, or no matter how many white-lies told, Albus Dumbledore would do what's right, what's just, what was fo-

'_For the Greater Good,_' a honeyed voice mockingly finished his thought. Its frigid malice drawled in a near silent whisper alongside the pale whorl of his ear causing the downy hairs lining the base of his neck to spring to attention.

Harry started at the unexpected sound – uncontrollable magic spiking in reaction to his fright and causing various cracks to stretch across the hewn stone walls. Thin hands flew to the polished arms of his chair as he whipped his tense body around to find the source of the chilling vocals, wild hair flailing at every twist and emerald eyes blown wide in suspicion. He found nothing more than the crowded space of Steelrick's office, a grim Hedwig cooing at him in worry, and the apathetic goblin assessing him over the steepled lengths of his cragged hands and the now strewn mess of his desk.

But that voice, he knew that voice. It had spoken to him not a few days before while he was imprisoned within his room at Number Four. Voldemort. The memory had all but slipped his congested mind after the chaotic events following the short conversation but those dulcet tones were unforgettable. The same instinctual fear that crept into his heart then afflicted him now. No matter of talks of future truces or calm correspondences could rid that ingrained response from his wary body. It disturbed him greatly how easily the man could just enter into his mind and spy on his actions with no second thoughts spared for his privacy. So much of his scarred life left unguarded and bared to the compassionless man that would have no qualms about using those scars against him, to hurt him more than those deadened memories ever could. It was becoming a problem and he wanted it to stop. Snape had tried teaching him the one magic that would block the invasions but he had been too much of a petulant child to listen or study on his own, and now he was paying for that childishness. Occlumency was still out of reach at this point in time, but Harry bumped up the importance of learning the skill to prevent the man from making such unwelcomed commentary on the day to day ventures of his life or haunting his thoughts. Freaking out over the encounter would not help him now, there was little he could do about the situation sitting in Steelrick's office.

The rapid sputtering of his heart gradually descended as no threats were discovered or boogey men found to be hiding in shadowy corners, and the teen retrieved the scattered packets of parchment thrown to the floor in is frantic movements while subconsciously a few rogue fingers traced the buzzing flesh of his ear.

Risking a glance at the aloof expression on Steelrick's face and the wreck his magic had made of the creature's office, Harry sheepishly bowed his head in embarrassment and nervously fiddled with the cuffs of his robe. Inwardly, he berated himself for such a telling display and shattering the pureblood mask he originally indented to keep firmly in place during this meeting. Steelrick no doubt thought him just as barmy as the Daily Prophet once proclaimed and a floundering idiot in all things regarding his family and the Potter vaults. But he had to press on and see what else he might discover from this meeting. It was far too important for figuring whatever future allegiances he might take, so he shoved his embarrassment far into the foggy recesses of his mind, took another sip of his bespelled tea, and straightened himself the best to his ability.

"I must ask your humble apology for the damage to your possessions and I also ask that you excuse my earlier crass actions. I have not been in the best of state for the last few fortnights, and this news comes as quite the shock to me. I will of course compensate for any damages should you wish it," Harry said evenly after collecting his thoughts, trying to reign in his disagreeable magic, and quietly chiding himself one last time for acting like a skittish Hufflepuff. He then fixed an even stare to Steelrick's black eyes, silently intoning that it had been a simple mishap and that he could further the conversation without incident once more.

Minutes passed and the only sound to fill the room was the curious ticking of the machine working away in the corner as the two humanoids weighed one another. A pair of green eyes filled with determination to persevere despite the many challenges set out before him and the other a flinty hue of pitch quietly reassessing all Gringotts knew of one Harry James Potter-Black. This was hardly the first time some overly-emotional wizard had lost control and belted out their misgivings on the paltry trinkets of his office. No, that mattered little to the fervently turning cogs in Steelrick's mind. It was the unrestrained power of the magic that swept out of the boy in his moments of carelessness that intrigued the goblin.

Dark Lords or Light Lords, the grievances of wizards hardly phased the goblin race anymore – a mutual sentiment amongst many of the magical races that coexisted in this realm alongside the humans. For so long the fledgling magical race had gone at one another that it scarcely mattered anymore in their eyes as long as they followed the binding contract drafted between the different races almost a millennia ago. But now it seemed darker times approached, putting all at risk, fueled by this trivial war that Dumbledore fanned and that arrogant Dark Lord let draw out for far too long.

There had been worrying rumors as of late; dark, unfortuitous whisperings from the centaurs of the path of Mars traversing behind the Sun and never reemerging. As in all things, the goblins had sought council with other, forgotten races that read the future within nature's graces to legitimize the divination, and they too had foretold of grievous warnings. The Great Lady crumbling from the starry heavens, Yggdrasil toppling from its towering heights, and the Timeless Seas drying to torrid deserts. Certainly things to be taken with a grain of skepticism but the multitudes of ill-omens was distressing to say the least and even more so as other such premonitions poured in from around the globe. The future of this realm was uncertain and likely under threat, but the last of the Gates remained sealed away, far outside their reach. Even if the ancient relic still functioned, there was nowhere to run to now, not like before. The boy before him literally held the key to their salvation in his hands if he could only see around wizarding society's prejudice and come out from under Dumbledore's thumb in time to do something about it…

And who was he to stand in the way of that; Calamity, after all, was bad for business.

Finally, with the negligent wave of one claw-tipped hand, the office swiftly started to arrange itself back into a semblance of order. Another steaming cup of tea was floated across the breadth between the two occupants as Steelrick finished straightening his papers and addressed Harry as if nothing unusual happened. "Shall we continue then?"

"Yes," Harry quickly replied after releasing a pent up sigh of relief. He was sure the goblin had been crafting some way of cordially dismissing him for his strange behavior, and he had been preparing an adamant speech in his defense. But now there was no need and his mind promptly switched tracks and regurgitated his earlier questions.

"You mentioned before that the Potter vaults were used to fund… tokens of respect towards Wizengamot members that saw fit to disagree with Dumbledore's legislature. Is that not bribery, to buy someone off? I thought that was illegal?" he curiously questioned, eyebrows furrowing in confusion and head tipped slightly to one side.

"Yes it is, but this is not seen as bribery in the omnipotent eyes of British Magical law. No, it is perfectly legal for members of a political party or those lobbying for a bill to gift seated members with demonstrations of their gratitude. Often they are small, albeit expensive trinkets or favors to show one's appreciation for their laborious endeavors: dinner at a lavish restaurant, an exquisite bottle of Firewhiskey, the newest model of broom for the grandkids, or premium tickets for a sold-out Quidditch World Cup. If these gifts just happen to change hands after disusing an up-incoming bill waiting in the wings," Steelrick's smart-dressed shoulders minutely rose and his once-folded hands spread in an innocent gesture, "coincidence." The goblin's mouth broadened in a toothy grin but the whole statement was literally dripping in sarcasm - a telling gesture as to how Steelrick found the practice.

Harry, for one, would have thought the goblins agreeable with the costly exchange; money was being spent and thus gained, somewhere along the line of various transactions, finding its way back to Gringotts. But once he considered how much they loathed liars and thieves – the ominous warning at the bank's entrance of those seeking ill-begotten gains being your first clue – he amended his opinion of the cankerous creatures; well some of them, best not to get hasty. This back-handed tactic must have chafed against their minimal sense of honor and served as just another example of wizard's overwhelming greed.

Shaking the useless ponderings from his mind, Harry returned his tangent-wandering thoughts to the information he had just adopted. Frankly he felt numb and a tad bit darkly humored by the situation, though the latter was a little hard to discern why unless he wished to put his sanity into question. There was, however, a muted ringing of fury at the audacity of Dumbledore using the Potter accounts to fund _his _own ambition but that felt foreign yet a part of himself combined. And like hell was the jaded youth going to even entertain the idea that the man did this in his favor. It may have begun with good intentions, to protect the Boy-Who-Lived, but it had warped into Albus using the money to essentially bribe others into playing nice and him gaining more control over House Potter as its Retainer. It worried him honestly, to feel almost nothing at something of this scale, but what had he been expecting Dumbledore to use the galleons for? Feeding starving children in third-world countries…? Not likely. He felt as if he might as well have slapped himself in the head and pronounced to the world his native idiocy with a finely placed, "Well duhhh!"

The brooding teen was fished from his cynical musings as a dismissive snort sounded nearby. And Harry was uncertain if he had mistakenly said that last part aloud and Steelrick produced the noise in agreement or if he was once again regaled with a sardonic monologue by his peeping-Tom. But a quick glance towards the goblin proved unhelpful as the creature's face once again took up a fair impression of a brick wall and no other words of wisdom were imparted by his imaginary friend. Agitated, Harry decided to stop lollygagging and move the conversation along before he embarrassed himself further. And if the state of his mental ramblings and the developing twinge in his left side were anything to go by, he was not bound long for the waking world.

"That covers the _minor_ charges, what about the larger withdrawals, the ones with the notations beside them?" Even before the question wholly left his mouth, a second spell-bound packet of parchment was making its way across the desk's surface and into Harry's hands. Words like excavation, charity, mutual funds, Hogwarts, research grants, and many others peppered the scrolling pages as the list of thousands of galleons was divided into sweeping paragraphs of explanations. The pages even contained notes on physical items removed from the vaults and where they had wandered off too. A few of the more dubious subjects listed in research studies made the raven-haired teen bristle in indignation: wool socks, lemon candies, and muggle musical instruments. The man had been throwing _his_ money away.

"Dumbledore has been a very busy and generous man as you can see. Until recently the majority of the withdrawals were used to fund research into many areas such as Alchemy, the history of magical heritage sites, Potions, and Transfiguration – innocent educational, if not whimsical, endeavors. Or the other more substantial amounts went into non-profit organizations and charities, or donations to government run facilities. St. Mungo's, for example, was graciously gifted with a new addition to its Creature-Induced Injuries ward by the vulnerable Headmaster and the Ministry received expensive new sconces to redo the faulty lighting in the janitorial staff building." Harry's resident shade found this last entry particularly amusing and the bewildered teen prepared to ask the goblin why, because he had never heard of such a thing, before he was pinned with an incredulous black-eyed glare.

"There is no janitorial staff building at the Ministry Mister Potter," Steelrick cut in flatly, "not a fact the every-day witch or wizard would care to learn or deem important, but that is what the near six-thousand galleon donation was written off as. Varying amounts were also gifted to multiple organizations of which were found to be indirectly under Albus' control. The Hogwarts' Muggleborn/Orphan scholarship and the school's ground maintenance funds, a charity by the name of the Free Bird Organization, homes for those devastated by the war, and a newly developed Cursebreaking team out of France that specialized in archeology.

"However, over the last few years the seemingly sporadic flow of galleons has ceased and solely focused on geological research, procuring ancient tomes of history and legends, and excavating ruins of ancient magical and muggle metropolises. Every so often Dumbledore is reported at the dig sites he oversees and after every time it is reported he has returned to the British Isle displeased, the excavation is halted, funding cut, and another is commissioned elsewhere. All evidence suggests he is looking for something and spending a great deal of your money to find it."

"Do you have any idea what that might be Mister Steelrick?" the Potter heir asked evenly.

"No, we do not." Steelrick's voice was chilled in his reply; it irked the goblins terribly to be so blind to the machinations behind such maneuvering of this scale, and the observing presence within Harry's mind seemed to take a keen interest in the conversation at this point.

So Dumbledore was searching desperately for something that even the vast connections of Gringotts were unaware of. The Headmaster had been absent from the school periodically last year, Harry recalled, but he had not noticed anything out of the ordinary to suggest something like this. Coming to a conclusion, he determined to keep a closer eye on Albus when he returned for his sixth year to see if he did anything to warrant suspicion. And as just a general note, distance himself from the Headmaster altogether without drawing attention to his own shifted attitude towards the man and the war.

"And the other possessions removed?" he asked wearily after taking a short glance back down to the crisp pages. His anger towards the profuse situation seemed to have melted away to the outer-reaches of his mind. A handy defense mechanism towards negative emotions he learned from the Dursleys and the breeding ground for his figmented lion – or so the teen thought. Harry's abusive childhood had just never equipped him with the tools on how to properly deal with such overwhelming grief, anger, and pain. So like any child he reacted on instinct, separating himself from the cause and locking the emotions away when they became too great for him to handle. Hiding the pain or forcing himself into apathy as protection. But the suppressed emotion was poisonous and became volatile if kept in this state for too long. Often they would boil over and express themselves as his patented Gryffindorish-hotheadedness or reckless tantrums like the ones before in Dumbledore office or his room a few nights prior. This is not to say he never felt these emotions; he was not that stunted after all. But after seething to certain point they just became distant and muted, joining the others inside the deep chasm of his psyche to be forgotten and only allowing the more important points of his enmity towards certain recurring villains – Snape and Voldemort - in his life to be expressed.

"The books removed from the vaults were gifted to the Hogwarts' library. They could be considered antiques or impressive doctrines of literature but they were hardly the most important of the Potter family's possessions. Like I said before, Charlus knew something like this could occur and took measures to prevent it. He only left James with a few dozen books of value but none of the ones the Potter Lord knew Dumbledore coveted. Many trinkets or artifacts were either sold at charitable auctions for war victims, put on loan to the Ministry, or moved to Hogwarts. Of course there was a certain article of clothing withdrawn some years ago but to our sources it made it safely back into your hands."

"How could any of this be legal?" Thinking back on it all, Harry was certain there had been something illegal obtained somewhere.

"I assure you Mister Potter, Dumbledore has followed Wizarding law to the letter in all matters taken concerning your vaults. He was well within his rights to donate the money to whomever he wished as the Potter Lordship's Retainer as long as the money's use was well documented and not all deviated at one time. All the books were given fairly to a neutral party, the galleons to the charities and the charities themselves were all within legal limits, and the money used for his own personal research appropriate considering it went through a non-profit organization beforehand. Everything he did is perfectly acceptable. All this was made possible due to certain loopholes within old Wizarding law concerning Retainer's rights and responsibilities that Dumbledore bolstered with his legislation. And the fact that the amount of liquid and hard assets within the outer familial vaults was at such a lesser degree compared to that within the grander inner vaults Albus could not reach. A technicality Charlus was unable to work around by the time of his sudden passing of Dragonpox. Albus Dumbledore is a fierce political figure and made sure that none of his actions could be questioned. He was sure to never announce or leave an obvious paper trail as to where the donations were originating from. But it is hardly illegal that the public believed the man's generosity to come from his own deep pockets, now is it. He is untouchable. (2)" The goblin finished, addressing the silent wizard over his steepled lengths of his claws once more.

Harry calmly nodded his shaggy head at the news, pale hands messaging the tired planes of his face – paying extra attention to pain surmounting between his eyes. He could feel the effects of his potion-laced beverage coming to an end. Leaning back into the chair's hard embrace – digits mindlessly tapping a rhythmic beat against the seat's arm – he mulled everything over. His blood, wizarding kin had resigned him to Dumbledore, the Headmaster had been exploiting the Potter savings to bribe Wizengamot members into voting for legislation belonging to his own twisted agenda, and the man had drained a few of his accounts dry for promoting his own sterling image and masquerading as Indian Jones with whatever the hell it was that he was looking for. And it was all perfectly legal. _'Bloody hell,_' was the only relevant thought to come to mind.

After taking a long, bracing breath he pressed on, fingers now folded neatly in his lap and adolescent brooding discarded for later. "Alright, so the upper accounts are all but emptied but what of the inner ones mentioned sir? What do they contain?"

"Your heritage and wealth does not exist on galleons alone, but in the artifacts that have been collected over the millennia wizards have thrived on these isles. The entire wealth of your family's ancestral knowledge and history: countless works of art, literature, and magical treasures all reside within the vast reaches of the inner vaults. And one item in particular that is famous for belonging under the Potter pennant that centers around it all. Suffice to say it is also the one item the Ministry, and many others, would do anything to obtain. That is not to say you are berth of liquid assets. The Potters own a majority of stock in most of Magical Britain's oldest companies, and through careful management and healthy holdings in the more capitalizing businesses of present, muggle and international. Despite the copious amounts plundered from the first depositories, you are hardly destitute Mister Potter." The last words uttered with another sneering looking over his dismal apparel and health. "All you must do is claim the Potter Lordship by passing the guardian's test and the vaults will become open to you and Dumbledore removed from his place as Retainer."

"And how would I go about passing this test?" Harry was very much relieved he had not been rendered a pauper by Dumbledore. He had forgotten all about the efforts of his grandfather Charlus to prevent that very same thing from happening. The man had saved his family's ancestry by locking the majority of the family's wealth away from James, and inadvertently Dumbledore. What many may have seen as cruel, he saw as protecting his family, and his premonition of meddling had rung true in the end. Charlus must have been a brilliant man to get one over on the Headmaster and Harry wished very much he could have had the chance to meet him. The man would have undoubtedly made one hell of a prankster.

"A willing bequeathment of blood and the partaking of a small sample of your magic will start the assessment, and when the guardian deems it fitting, you will stand before it to be judged. I take it you wish to begin this process today?"Harry nodded yes as exhaustion pulled at his consciousness and a small yawn slipped past his defenses leaving a blush on his face as he tried to smoother is with his hand. "But I see our time here grows short and there is one other matter I wished to speak with you regarding the Black inheritance."

Harry shook off the creeping sensation of lethargy making its way up his body to pay attention to the goblin's next words, correcting his slumped posture and running his fingers through his messy hair in a futile attempt to subdue it. This was important; it was the last precious gift his Godfather had ever left him and someone was trying to keep it from him.

"The Ministry has deemed fit to interfere in your inheritance of the Black name on the grounds that Sirius Orion Black was a criminal and therefore legally not permitted to name you heir. Investigations into when the heir-claim was filed have been made and remain inconclusive at this time. Gringotts has it on record that Mister Black made you Heir-Apparent after being named your first Godfather, however the Ministry evidently states otherwise. This is a very weak case against your Lordship, surely instigated by a Lower Noble House in efforts to try and gain control over the prestigious Black name. Moreover, there have been feeble objections made by other Lower and Greater Houses of you gaining Lordship over two Most Noble and Ancient Houses. All these allegations are just stalling tactics because by law, any genuine claim of improper inheritance must been overseen and investigate by the Wizengamot. It is a tedious process when Lordships change hands Mister Potter but I guarantee you that your inheritance of the Black name is completely legitimate, for I saw to it personally. Gringotts already acknowledges you as Lord Black and so do others, I might imagine. If you wish to know more of the Black accounts I would recommend scheduling a meeting so we might discuss them later, but at present time they are profiting, and besides this misstep in changing ownership, doing well." Steelrick began stacking papers away and turned to a mahogany cabinet beside him and withdrew a ruin-studded, stone dish. After collecting a small, sheathed dagger and a dark crystal from his desk he placed the items before the drowsy teen telling him to drop seven globes of blood in the bowl and then hold the black geode in his hands.

"The potion effects should be wearing off any minute now and I must ask what you wish of us to do with you then."

A mere second of paralyzed thought passed before the brilliant idea struck him. "Is there an inn anywhere you could take me away from the crowds; somewhere other than Diagon or Knockturn Alley? A district where I can finish my summer in peace without being recognized, get some shopping done perhaps, but be within walking distance of Gringotts to finish the guardian's test should the need arise? I will pay you for your efforts of course, and would it be entirely possible to make a withdrawal from the upper vaults to make some purchases while the test is being seen to?"

"Yes, I know of such a place. It is called The Midden and very few people will care for your name there, only the strength of your coin." The goblin's attention returned to the hidden drawers of his desk and lifted a stack of parchment from its depths, passing them over to Harry along with a golden-hued quill. "The upper accounts do contain sufficient funds for any purchases made during the remainder of this summer; however, any overtures will be relieved from the Black accounts sense Gringotts recognizes you as Lord Black the accounts are already tied to your name. This is a document stating you have agreed to start the guardian's test." As quickly as the last letter of his name was messily scrolled across the dotted line another stark page was presented before him. "This is a waver permitting our removal of your unconscious person from the bank to an unknown destination and you approval to take the mandatory inn fee from your accounts. I am legally required to state that should you not flaunt your notable identity within The Midden you should remain safe." A second of hesitation passed before Harry sloppily signed that one too and had another shoved under his nose. "Lastly, this is an agreement concerning your wish to withdraw currency at this time. This is the remaining balance in the vaults, place your requested amount here and an attendant will be sent to retrieve it before your removal." Harry's foggy eyes could barely make out the fine script on the pages and his fingers could hardly grip the shaft of the quill as he finished signing everything.

"One l-last question, w-why not someone else besides Dumbledore or a family member. Why not another wizarding family?" Harry fought not to slur his words but his limb grew too heavy to left and his eyelids impossible to wrench open. He knew the answer to this question but he could not help but hope there was a better explanation as to why. Surely there had to be families out there with stronger or comparable wards to the ones at the Dursleys.

"Blood is a powerful thing in magic, Mister Potter, little can compare to its potency. Dumbledore assured the Wizengamot that he had a secure dwelling where you would be adequately protected by the ablest wards possible. Bloodwards, and for them to be at their peak, you needed to be placed in the residence that contained your closest of kin."

"I see…" The teen mumbled out as the potion's hold depleted him of strength, a moment of panic ripped through him at the thought of being rendered defenseless in such a place but it soon passed as he was mercilessly drug into blessed sleep.

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xXx

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Large flames flickered within the grand hearth that they called home, sweeping out past the sturdy stone of fireplace's structure, and creeping across the quickly heating earthen-floor towards its master. The flame's heat licked at the flammable, wooden surfaces of bookcases and table-legs, fine tailored robes, and a pair of bare, pale feet they meet along as it crawled along the ground. Its orange fingers beckoning and dancing seductively to its own wild beat as it went to try and lure its solitary watcher closer, but the sole occupant of the dark room only slyly smirked at its sultry wiles and stubbornly stayed seated. Undeterred the catty conflagration grew bolder, flaring out to encompass the room in its oppressive heat: trailing up study columns to burn at the illusioned sky covering the ceiling, curling unused parchment to flaky char, and lovingly caressing the warded spines of worldly tomes as it tried to entice its prey into action, but was only rewarded with a husky chuckle from the man for its efforts. Growing frustrated at the lack of attention, the blaze retreated under its master's chair, tucking all its colorful plumes tightly together, and churned with pleasure as it changed its form on a whim and attacked.

Lithesome, humanoid arms made from emerald fire slowly trailed down the man's broad shoulders from behind his seat. Coiling long, dark strands of hair between its slender fingers as the fiery appendages drifted lower and lower down the man's clothed torso – mischievously plucking at random buttons and ties as they passed. A beryl glow softly illuminated the room as the flames playfully baited the amused man: tousling once orderly hair, slipping underneath heavy robes to kiss the pale skin hiding beneath, and gradually rounding the chair to perch on the man's lap.

Green flames swiftly engulfed the wooden throne as the living fire suddenly brought its semi-corporeal form flush against the one below it: breathing hot air against its master's neck as it touched every inch of him, teasing, soothing, and burning its power into the man's skin, claiming him in an animalistic way. And just as quickly as it came, the mirthful blaze swiftly swept back into its hearth and returned to its quant, orange façade with one last flicker at the man's feet.

With one dismissive motion of his hand the room righted itself and the unwelcomed feeling of clammy perspiration melted away leaving his body refreshed. With the fire's flirting over the man was once again plagued with musings of the boy who had being monopolizing the majority of his thoughts this day. Thoughts that were only fanned to a higher degree by the not-so-innocent color the blaze opted to display. To any other it would have seemed like pure chance that the boy would choose this day to venture to Gringotts, but Voldemort believed not in coincidences. He had felt the chaotic strumming of Potter's magic long before laying sight on the boy.

Oh, and what a tantalizing sting the whole of Potter's magic was, truly wild and unbridled, applying the zinging taste of ozone to the tongue as it swirled about, the complete opposite of his prowling magic in every way. What was once a dismal shoal was now a surging sea of strength. It uncontrollably flooded out around the boy, subconsciously trying to grant its master's wish to stay hidden, but instead, unwittingly drawing the mindless droves towards to the young wizard as he fought to climb the stairs. Like months to the flame the occupants of Diagon Alley were powerless to resist its allure, and the most amusing part, Potter had no inkling of what his errant magic was doing. The boy's magic was unrestrained and newly awoken, and it zealously guarded its new found freedom by reacting to every whim and change in emotion the boy had as if threatened. A dangerous liability to leave unchecked, the boy would need to learn to gain control over his magic before it lashed out again like it had at him on the bank's steps. Any lesser man would not have had the magical fortitude to quell its engorged anger and would have mostly likely succumbed to its wrath.

The foreign trace of the crown's poisonous presence running along Potter's magic was now easily discerned by Voldemort. And soon anyone with talent for such things would come to notice its existence as the sickly mauve threaded like spider-silk along once brilliant emerald grew and the leftover foul aftertaste of rotting flesh ripened. The taint was fueling the magic's disarray, barricading the boy's attempts at seizing complete control, and feeding off the magic's reserves to replenish itself. The purpose of its actions still eluded him, and a more in-depth inspection into the situation within the boy's mind was needed, and for that he would require Severus' expertise. Never before had the traces been present when he had encountered Potter before, and that was likely a side effect of the spelled-crown being misplaced and the recent release of the entirety of the boy's magic. Naturally he had spied the blocks regulating the boy's strength the night of his rebirth in the graveyard, and while they piqued his interest, Voldemort saw no need in informing Potter of these impediments. But now it seemed without the crown effectively controlling the lion within the boy's mindscape, Potter's magic had been broken free from its constraints over the last few days.

It all certainly warranted a closer look and his patience would be surely rewarded when he untangled the mystery behind Dumbledore's spell. Indenturing Potter's trust as well was decidedly an appealing side-benefit.

Confronting the boy on the stairs had been an inconvenient amendment to his plans, but as if by fate, the clumsy nuisance had tripped right into his person. Even if Potter's mangled vision could not perceive Voldemort's true visage hidden by the glamour he wore, his magic had instantly recognized him as a threat and subconsciously relayed that sentiment to its host, putting the Light's Chosen One on guard. Suppressing the newly unshackled magic that saw fit to test its boundaries by attacking him had been trivial, but leaving the unguarded savior there alone on the steps had rankled the old dredges of his once impaired psyche that all but bayed for Potter's blood.

It would have been hardly worth the effort, and he, not brazenly impulsive enough to pluck the little lion off a crowded street. With the unknown variable of the crown influencing the boy and with his grander display of magic, the reckless Gryffindor would have generated too much of a scene. Furthermore, the boy was no longer a concern of his; the letter he had received earlier that day had proved the crumbling foundations of Potter's allegiance and therefore no longer a high priority. Just the heedless bearer of a puzzle Voldemort wished to solve.

Mentally traipsing along with Potter for his meeting with Steelrick had been fruitful. A majority of the information shared was inevitably closed to public viewing, but with his followers so deeply imbedded within the Ministry, there was little beyond his reach. Expectedly, it came as a great surprise to the boy to see the devastating results of his blind trust in Albus Dumbledore, but the darker, more cynical musings of the young wizard had intrigued Voldemort. He had been preparing for a fight to remove Potter from the board but now he was uncertain those efforts would be needed. Steelrick's words had worked beautifully in his favor and now the boy was standing before a steep precipice, dangerously swaying back and forth before its rocky edge. He only needed those last few pushes to send him over, toppling from his lofty, golden heights.

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**AN:** Review please.

1. Leonidas means 'son of the lion.' I thought it was an interesting name considering the Potters long Gryffindor background.

2. I just wanted to say this; I am in no way familiar with financial law but I tried to make it clear there is nothing Harry could do about Dumbledore taking his money. I believe if Dumbledore was to ever do something like that to Harry then he would do it in such a way that no legal repercussions could be taken against him. I just don't see Albus stealing the money and leaving such a blatant way for his reputation to be smudged. Before you get upset, Harry does have a lot more money stashed away, no worries, but the political and financial woes of Britain are not going to matter much in the end of the story.

**Recommending Reading:**

Ok this week we will be jumping out of the box a little, venturing to another favorite HP pairing of mine.

Abyss by Lunalelle

Hermione takes in a serpent familiar that turns into a man by night. Kidnapping, deception, and unsaid words. Very long time in coming: Hermione/Voldemort. Some one-sided Hermione/Wormtail(one-sided) as well. A lot of three dimensional Death Eater action, too. Dark.

Don't let the 'Voldemort is a snake' cliché fool you, this story has a lot of depth and gets really dark… like really, really dark. As the almost innocent first chapters pass this story drops into dangerous waters and stays there. Voldemort truly is a Dark Lord in this one: ruthless, cunning, and diabolical. Hermione is perfectly in character –smart, yet not overbearing- and fights like a heroine through all the monumental travesties put in her way but does not come out unharmed in the end. Lunalelle is a true marvel at all her characters; she takes the Death Eaters to a whole new level and turns them into something to be feared. A very good read, very well written, and amazing imaginary. But I cannot stress enough that if you don't like gore, non-con, and torture this story is not for you. Please do not read if you are not old enough for mature content.

It has a sequel called Ascent but I won't ruin anything for you. Enjoy!


	11. Actions Do Not Make A Man,They Reveal Hm

**Disclaimer**: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**AN:** Been a while, I apologize. Writing just fell by the wayside. I will try and not let so much time pass before the next update.

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**Too Have Fallen**

**Actions do not Make a Man, They Reveal Him**

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It had been days since Harry sluggishly awoke in a strange room with only a short letter of explanation from the goblins as to his whereabouts, his belongings safely within reach, and himself nestled in a warm cocoon of linens and small bodies of heat. Well, that might be somewhat incorrect… a simple letter, a comfortable bed, and a curious audience of more felines than any crazy cat lady had any business of collecting, all sheltered under the crooked roof of a place Harry had come to refer to as "The Inn".

He had christened the establishment thus because its given name was indecipherable to his English-trained tongue with its foreign characters of squiggled-lines and dots.

After a day spent exploring the modest inn and being tailed endlessly by his nosey inn-mates, the Gryffindor soon discovered that there was only the old, wrinkled woman known as Mao and a few maids holding down the fort in the human category and the rest was left up to the cats. Not that Harry had ever seen the elderly woman actually move beyond the floor-pillow she sat upon besides to puff at the sweet-smelling tobacco in her pipe or to sip at her murky, green tea. And the maids were infuriatingly hard to approach, always disappearing around corners and vanishing into thin air.

The felines however, were everywhere. They came in every shade of color, textured fur, and a wide variety of personalities from the Laissez-faire attitude of the plump tom that oversaw bookkeeping at the front desk, to the rambunctious antics of the adolescent kittens in the halls. Yes, his title was certainly friendlier than the name the locals had taken to calling the inn, even if it was somewhat appropriate.

The "Litter Box" turned out to be smack-dab in the middle of an alley previously unknown to Harry, dubbed The Midden.

A dump, the street's name roughly translated into, and with its crowded pathways built into a natural slop and the perpetual shadows cast by Gringotts and the more popular, higher alleys beyond, Harry could see where it got its name and reputation. It was a working man's avenue with buildings teeming with lower-class people, magical workshops tolling endlessly, and rowdy pubs open all hours of the day. The Midden was well off the beaten path of carefree shoppers and featured none of the pageantry of Diagon Alley or the foreboding feel of Knockturn. Here, life moved at a faster pace than the slow crawl of the outside world, and they cared not for your name or face, only the money in your pocket.

It had taken some time to get use to the new, lively environment outside his room's window and the distant attitudes of some of the locals. Not to mention The Inn's inhabitants themselves and the strange changes happening to him.

His body's renewed aches and tiredness had kept him inside for the first couple of days after waking, despite his eagerness to explore, and his only company had been the cats, a drowsy Hedwig, and his thoughts. The fickle felines had reminded him too much of the hours spent trapped with Ms. Figg to be comfortable at first, but when he awoke in the late hours of the night to do his restless wanderings, sometimes their presence was the only thing keeping him grounded. And when they tightly curled up next to him whenever he finally exhausted his busy mind into slumber, he subconsciously compared their closeness to an embrace. They were his constant companions and he was grateful to have them to distract himself when his thoughts turned to the many issues he was trying to avoid.

However like most things in his life, they refused to bow to his desires. But what else was there to say that had not already been made perfectly clear by the actions of Dumbledore, Voldemort, and various other guilty parties. Harry had already decided to distance himself from the Headmaster, wait for the Dark Lord's reply before making further decisions towards his allegiance, and seek out more information on his magical relatives and his legal situation when time permitted.

And yet, despite hours of tedious planning for his future, Harry found himself filled with doubt on every decision he made. Constantly second-guessing himself now that he had no Hermione or lion-like voice guiding him constantly, and his crippled pride kept him from asking Hedwig once more for advice thinking, that he burdened her too often. He felt as if he had no one to turn to; he was truly alone and that was what scared him the most, having to single-handedly struggle his way up through the ever-deepening pit of lies and problems he had dung for himself.

One late night Harry's uncertainty had come to a head. Ruthless whisperings of his shortcomings had plagued him for hours, and questions regarding Dumbledore's actions and his own cowardice looped like a broken record in his ears. He had been so close to seeking out the Headmaster, struggling to function over the pounding in his head and oblivious to the blood leaking from his nose when a blanket of numbing darkness stretched across his battered mind, chasing away the pain and the fire that had seized his body.

Confused and angry at the sudden turn of his thoughts from wanting to profess his guilt over Voldemort's letter to Dumbledore, to now understanding he had almost made a crucial mistake if not for the swift intervention, Harry had huddled deep into the cool sheets of his bed and damned himself for his own insecurities as the presence retreated.

After a night of twisting and turning - and much apologizing for disturbing his bed partners - Harry had sat up with a huff and decided to quit fighting it regardless of his mind's profuse refusal to see the man in a different light. It had indeed been Voldemort that had saved him on the stairs that day and most likely the same darkness that frolicked through his mind from time to time. He may well be oblivious to certain things or socially awkward at times, but there were a few things he prided himself in knowing: Quidditch, and Voldemort. Or at least that is what he once thought.

Far be it for him to question what nefarious things the Dark Lord had been up to that day, but what really had Harry curious was why the man had bothered to catch him at all. Truce or not, it would have been far easier for Voldemort to simply let him take a quick tumble down the stairs. There was only so much Medi-Wizards could piece back together despite their claims to the contrary, and the teen was pretty sure a broken neck was not one of them.

Dreams and visions of bloody torture he could preserve by believing the man was evil incarnate, but snippets of emotions and the occasional good deed were what really had Harry morbidly piqued, and yet terribly frustrated. Dark Lords simply did not save their prophesied vanquishers from accidentally killing themselves, even _if_ the prophecy was faked. Yet this was not the only time something resembling acceptable morals had been displayed by the man. There still was the whole mindscape, cat-fight fiasco to consider.

But comparing the panther-like presence within his mind to Voldemort, or even the rude bastard he had encountered outside Gringotts was difficult. The panther he strangely saw as a sort of protector. It had saved him from the berserking lion and removed him, somewhat painfully, from the touch of the crown. Even after witnessing the abuse the Dursleys had engraved into his body, the animal had made no attempt to ridicule him for his weakness. Instead it had given Harry back his shirt to cover his shame and left him in peace. So it was no wonder his mind rebelled against comparing the actions of the panther to those of the manic Voldemort he knew, in spite of the overwhelming similarities.

However, the Dark Lord could disguise the flesh but there was no disguising the man's magic and the general air of darkness he extruded in any form, animal or human. The man's magic had been overwhelming that day when it had reared up and all but smothered down his own. And woe was Harry to admit that he subconsciously enjoyed the cinder-like tang clinging to the magic as it encircled him, wrapped around him tight and bound him, despite his conscious' furious denial. The two magics had been so different, almost complete opposites of one another in every way; Voldemort's honed and gently swaying and Harry's wild and playful like the wind.

For the past couple of days Harry had noticed a distinct difference in his magic. While at Hogwarts it had been sluggish, almost as if it had to struggle to travel the distance from his core to the tip of his wand. Spells in class had to be cast repeatedly before a small spark was made, but now, after the day he awoke to his unlocked bedroom at the Dursleys, his magic was free flowing, surging with movement and excitable. At first he approached this new development with the same child-like wonder he had had performing the wandless, nonverbal magic. But as the days passed and his magic restored itself from whatever Voldemort had done to it, Harry became concerned.

He could not turn it off. It jumped at the chance to fulfill his every whim and often Harry found that even the slightest thought had his magic acting on its own. Thoughts of wanting something from the other side of his inn-room had everything in the immediate area careening towards him, slamming into him and knocking him to the floor. A simple wish for more light had every light in the alley shining and his room lit up like Christmas.

Nighttime was the worst, he soon discovered. He awoke after grueling nightmares to find his room devastated and his furry companions cowering in the hallways. What had started out as a pleasing boon was now a terrifying curse. He could not walk down the alley without trinkets and other curious things that caught his wandering eyes flying towards him and him having to pay the vendor for the item to not seem like a thief.

Touching things with his naked fingers, magical or ordinary, shortly became a forbidden act when his magic started to flow into the objects and animate them; chairs danced around his room and cups began to sing old show-tunes when he tried to enjoy his tea.

However, when magical items were involved, touching them caused an impression of their lifespan to cloud his senses, or if the item was strong enough, trap him into a vision of their past. He had to be constantly aware of what his magic was doing, and when some of the cats started to flinch from his touch, Harry grew concerned that should his emotional control slip, he might seriously injure someone on accident. He took to wearing a hooded cloak while exploring the alley to shield his eyes from the vendors and gloves were constantly wrapped around his fingers to keep him from touching things.

Yet Harry continued to try and make the most of it. The handful of days he had spent waiting for Gringott's summons were spent wandering the alley and its many hidden treasures of shops, chatting with a few of the more talkative vendors, and studying his growing collection of new books on various subjects including Occlumency, Defense, and Wizarding genealogy. Nights were dedicated to forming plans and trying to loosen the growing unease about his future with every day that passed without a reply from Voldemort.

.

xXx

.

With the segmented beams of sunlight raining down from the cragged roof onto the supposed perpetrator of this daytime kidnapping, it did not take Harry long to determine why he found himself unexpectedly standing in a collapsed building when he had just been resting after a morning spent exploring the end of the alley. Rule #124: When in doubt, blame the Dark Lord.

Or, at least someone Harry guessed was the Dark Lord. This man certainly did not resemble the snake-faced bastard he had seen at the Ministry some weeks ago, or the brown-haired man on the stairs to Gringotts. The individual striding towards him looked exactly the same as the man Harry witnessed killing his parents and attempting to kill him in the Dark Lord's visual recount of the Halloween night over a decade ago. Even with his rudimentary understanding of magic, connecting the dots as to what must have happened was not all that difficult. Voldemort, being the narcissist that he undoubtedly was, must have found some way to shed the guise of the snake and return to the looks of his prime.

'No doubt using some Dark and forbidden ritual involving virginal sacrifice and defenseless, little animals,' Harry thought darkly, green-eyes narrowing as the unwilling observation regarding the man's looks flittered across his mind. Voldemort's face was somewhat passable for a male now that he had found himself an agreeable nose and his features no longer resembled the epitome of childish nightmares.

Nimbly picking his way through the overgrown vegetation springing through the uneven floor and around the fallen pillars of white stone, the now restored Dark Lord walked down the aisle of the collapsed building without even a glance in Harry's direction. The man's body was shrouded in an unembellished black robe that gently swayed with every step, and he carried a curious, brown satchel tucked under one arm. Voldemort approached the center of the dwelling where the mossy rubble of the broken dome above made its resting place and carefully placed his parcel on a waist-high, free standing stone beside him.

With one outward wave of the man's hand, the sizeable stone fragments littering the ground slowly lifted into the air, hovering—unaffected by the laws of physics—until they began arranging themselves in sequential order by size, outlining a fairly large circle with Voldemort at its very center.

Harry would have never noticed, thinking them to be only random bits of rubble, until he saw them completely aligned. Each stone had its designated place, forming a perfect circlet of inclining stones with the smallest occupying the side Voldemort had entered and the largest meeting together across the circle's circumference. Glyphs etched deep into the stones' surfaces glowed faintly sliver in color and they all hummed in a low tune with the solid masses beside them. The already magic-laden air spiked dramatically and the surrounding atmosphere became pregnant with the feeling of something Harry, with his limited experiences in magic, could only describe as ancient.

With the stones all removed except the unique-looking one at Voldemort's side, the tile-free floor underneath was completely exposed. The Dark Lord then began removing items from his satchel, placing a few on the ground while others were gathered to be manually placed outside the stone halo. Seemingly as a last preparation, the man removed his outer-robe leaving him bare, with nothing except the simple, black trousers he wore underneath and the strange tattoo-like markings that littered the man's upper body.

Each shift of compacted muscle caused the markings to dance along his skin. They spiraled down the older man's biceps like twining snakes and decorated the tender flesh of his wrist and forearms like bangles. Some were so fine and intricate Harry could barely see them, while others stood loud and bold against Voldemort's lightly-tanned skin. Each seemed to hold a place of importance but none more so than the large runes scrolling down his spine. With each drift of long, dark hair, the teen would catch new glimpses of the elusive image. From what Harry could tell, it originated from the back of the man's neck, traveled down the length of his spine, split in two at the small of his back, and dipped past the waistband of the low riding trousers he wore. Words and designs, increasing in font as they scrolled ever downward, branched off the main route like the boughs of great tree and covered the entire expanse his exposed, broad back.

With a sweep of raven hair, Harry briskly looked away as a deep blush consumed his face at the traitorous thought of wanting to see the rest of the tattoo and how far the fascinating script went down. It was purely from Gryffindor curiosity he told himself, because in no way did he want to see the villainous man naked. Focusing his thoughts elsewhere, the teen determinedly banished his deviant thoughts, wishing the man would put a shirt on already and stop prancing around half-naked.

Staring out the broken, colorful panes of a nearby window, Harry figured that he must be having another vision from the man. But from the calm, relaxed feel that Voldemort went about preparing for whatever it was he was here to do, the teen was rather curious why their connection drew him here. Here, to this forgotten place…this titan engulfed by the wilds.

And it truly was a wonder; its magnificence was comparable to that of Hogwarts. The abandoned building that Harry believed to have once been a massive church of some kind was undeniably beautiful even in its dilapidated state. Something about the wilds of the surrounding forest reclaiming the stone relic gave him the feeling of a peaceful haven deep in his bones. Vines of the nearby trees crept in through shattered windows, entangling along sconces and entwining together amongst the fresco ceiling, where sunlight poured in from gaping holes and down from the oculus of the dome above. Large roots upended elaborate tiles on the floor, breaking them open so the earth underneath was exposed and a low mist drifted between the rotten, wooden pews. The atmosphere here reminded Harry of the vast forest he dreamt about, and even the air was thick with magic like that of his dream.

Movement from the corner of Harry's roving eyes caught his attention. Voldemort was crouched amongst the crumbled stone of the once great cathedral, tracing intricate lines of salt on the floor. Starting at the base of the smaller stones, he began tediously working with the small grains of the crystal-like mineral and the younger man looked on fascinated as the circle slowly grew in intensity and structure.

Time passed slowly, and Harry impatiently lingered in the shadowy outskirts, trying to observe without alerting the Dark Lord of his presence. Hours seemed to slip by, and still the man tirelessly worked, etching runes and elaborate patterns, and scorching others deep into the earth. Voldemort appeared to do the entire design out of pure memory, for he held no tome or map to collaborate with. Furthermore, no magic was used to align the salt or burn the marks; just the man's bare hands and a small tool he used to crave and create the needed fire.

Despite the obvious skill and perfection that went into its making, Harry was fast growing bored in his inactivity and frustrated from not knowing what the runes said or for what purpose Voldemort could possibly be expending so much time and energy to achieve. From the look of the drawing Harry guessed the man was preparing to perform a ritual, but that was just an educated guess on his part. He had never actually seen one performed, only mentioned in some of the more stocky books Hermione selected for 'light reading.'

Trying to turn his thoughts to more productive matters was harder said than done. No matter how hard he tried, his thoughts kept creeping back towards the pink elephant in the room: Voldemort and all the hundreds of other questions that paraded after him. Despite his foray into the topic earlier that week, Harry still found himself with no small amount of questions that needed answering. What exactly was the man's aim for the war, what motive did he have for offering Harry a truce, and what would happen should the Dark win or lose their fight?

Voldemort ruled his people with an iron fist because they needed him too; Harry understood that point all too well after witnessing the conflicting personalities of the Death Eaters. The Dark purebloods own actions and misconstrued ideals did not win them any favors or very many useful allies. Galleons, Dark knowledge, and spineless cowards they had in abundance-t was numbers and cooperation within their ranks that they lacked. Too many of the purebloods were too stubborn or maniacal to follow a lesser man. Yet with Voldemort at the reigns, the Death Eaters worked like a well oiled machine. The man was a dangerous tactician and knew just where to strike to stagger his much larger opponent in the Ministry and Dumbledore.

"Not so intimidating now though, playing in the dirt and all that," Harry absently said aloud, slouched down against the stone behind him while tracking specks dust as they drifted through shafts of sunlight.

Green eyes suddenly snapping wide at his actions, Harry nervously peeked around his chosen column to see if the man had heard him, chewing grievously on his lip and dreading the outcome of his carelessness.

Tools still in hand and face blank of anything except intense concentration, Voldemort continued to steadily work away, seemingly unaware of his fretful onlooker.

Harry slumped sideways against the pebble-studded ground in relief, string up a cloud of dust as he let out a small laugh at his foolishness. In all the visions he had had before, the Dark Lord had never made any definite sign of ever seeing or hearing him, only Nagini. So unless the terrifyingly lengthy python was sneaking around in the dark underbrush, he should be ok.

Once again reassured in his obscurity, Harry inched back over the fallen column he hid behind and followed Voldemort's long fingers as they carried on their delicate work. The older man was now almost half-way past the center of his circle and design, still leaving the Gryffindor clueless as to his intention.

Pensive, Harry lazily draped himself over the curved summit of the fallen pillar, fluted ridges digging uncomfortably into his torso, and calloused fingertips just barely reaching the ground below to petulantly bat at bits of stone while he continued his ponderings.

"Why would you care if I was in this war or not? What big difference, in the grand scheme of all things, would it matter if you had to kill me or not?" Harry said, peering pass the overgrown fringe of his bangs to look at the underlying source of his mental dilemma. If Harry publicly renounced his involvement in the war, then the wizarding world would become hysterical. He could already imagine prophets singing their foreseen doom in the streets and cowards fleeing like rats from a sinking ship. The magical world believed him to be their Savior, their only hope, but if they saw him back away, what would they do then?

'_Would they give up hope just because you were not there to fight their war for them?' _a dark voiced whispered in shadowy recesses of his mind.

"Maybe," Harry answered audibly, turning thoughtful green eyes down to the pictures his fingers drew in the dirt – absently trying to recreate some of what he saw the Dark Lord etching. "Or they could just find some other poor sod to hide behind. Maybe then Ron would finally get his fifteen minutes of fame; see how it really feels to be _loved_ by the masses…" The bitter thought was out and voiced before he could stop it. Sighing deeply – disturbing the sand of his picture - Harry had to acknowledge its truthfulness. Just because it was offensive towards his best mate, did not make it any less than the truth.

Was that Voldemort's plan then, stir up the people, have them questioning their ability to win this war and scrambling to find a suitable replacement for their missing savior? All this just tied right into what the man was saying about the wizarding world hiding behind him. Did they truly believe he, a teenager with very little knowledge of magic, could bring about the end of one of the most dangerous Dark Lords all by himself? Sure seemed that way…

"What are you going to do if you lose? Have you even thought of that possibility?" The thought struck him out of the blue and Harry was suddenly curious as to the answers.

"What would happen to all your followers should you die and Dumbledore prove triumphant? Have you even considered what the Ministry would do to the Dark purebloods like Malfoy? The Ministry might have fallen for Imperioed defense once but they will not allow supposed Death Eaters to escape persecution for their actions a second time! You could be possibly leading them all to slaughter!" The teen stated heatedly, throwing an accusing glare at the guilty party and rigidly crawling off his stone perch to stand. He did not know why it mattered so much to know these things but the callous disregard Voldemort had for his subordinates' lives chaffed at Harry and had his mind spinning with all the possibilities.

"The restrictions on all purebloods will heighten astronomically. The Ministry will more than likely repeat the hunts that took place at the end of the First War but far worse since they will have learned from their past mistakes. It will be like the Salem Witch Trials all over again. Any dark pureblood, even if they had no affiliation with the war will be hog-tied and brought in for questioning. There will be an express lane to Azkaban installed and any suspicion brought against your name, true or false, will have you on it!

"The smallest of actions against the Ministry would have anyone, Dark or Light, spending years in a cold cell. They will justify their actions to the public as a bid to stave off another civil war… and the battle weary people will whole-heartedly support them," Harry quietly finished while staring out through the open doors and into the forest beyond as a chill crawled up his spine and a distant anger not all his own bubbled within his mind. It was horrifying to think about, but with the way the British wizarding community had always acted towards threats with extreme prejudice, it was more than likely true.

Whole pureblood families would disappear overnight and their traditions and heritage right along with them. All their possessions would be sold off to the highest bidder to fund Ministry post-war programs. Priceless heirlooms that had been in families for untold generations would be pawned off like cheap silver and their history forgotten along with the ancient knowledge of their ancestors.

Was this what Voldemort meant by not wanting to kill him, not wanting to lose the Potter and Black name? Was this what the dark purebloods were fighting for, to keep the wizarding world from forgetting itself?

"'But now the Potter legacy will be forgotten and your ancestors' culture lost when you never come to understand what it means to hold what you do. Two of the most Ancient and Noble Houses, all their power and history, their knowledge and legends, at your very fingertips but you allow your prejudice views on magic to blind you to this treasure…'" Harry repeated lowly in a whisper, glancing over towards the hunched figure of the Dark Lord as the man's words slowly came back to him. Was he not somewhat committing the same crime against his ancestors by remaining ignorant towards them?

It was a little disturbing how the man knew him so well.

But considering where Harry had gotten his information from, it could be all flawed. "For all I know, you could be fighting for animal rights and casual work attire on Fridays. Though I severely doubt it, I just don't know." The teen let loose a sigh, his breath disturbing his unruly bangs as he once again felt overwhelmed and at a lost as to whom to believe.

"Hush boy, I did not bring you here to listen to your inane chatter." Harry swore he jumped four feet in the air at the unexpected voice that rippled towards him, tripping backwards upon an unsteady landing and falling to the ground with a painful "oomph".

Scurrying up off the floor after a few seconds lost in a bewildered daze, Harry stared in unabashed horror and mortification at all he had said aloud, thinking the man was unaware, as unwavering red eyes stared right back at him.

"You could hear me this whole time?" Harry asked quizzically, hair mused and still in shock over being discovered and just barely stopping himself from stomping his foot childishly at all the unfairness in the world.

"Unfortunately," The man answered blandly as he straightened from his crouched position, shaking the loose dirt off his hands and black pants while carefully picking his way outside the circle; never taking his eyes off Harry despite running the risk of ruining the runes he had worked so tirelessly to create.

Harry scrambled back, kicking up dust in his haste to retreat and patting his lose clothing in search of his wand, only to lowly curse aloud as his search came up empty. Of course it would not be there. Just like it had never been there, and over the years it had just become routine to stop checking. In all of the visions of before, there had never any sign of him needing it. But then again, Harry had always believed Voldemort could not see him, and that had just been proven alarmingly false. So what else did he just assume to be true was actually wrong? Could Voldemort hurt him here, kill him maybe?

Refusing to face the man empty-handed, the teen frantically cast his eyes around to find something suitable and urgently bent down and picked up the largest stone he could find nearby. Which admittedly was not much of a defense as the awkward stone was barely larger than his small hand. But if he was going to die, he was going to go down fighting, even if it was with such a lowly, primitive weapon as a rock. If ordinary David slain Goliath with nothing but a sling and a pebble, maybe he could slay a Dark Lord with a rock. Hope springs eternal, right?

But his actions only garnered him a thin, raised eyebrow in bemusement as the Dark Lord turned and approached the bag he carried with him earlier.

Harry gasped as a sharp pain laced through his hand causing him to drop the rock to the ground with a muted thud and cradle his smarting limb to his chest. Well that answered his earlier question.

All the rocks in his immediate area then started to roll away from him, leaving thin trails in the dirt behind them as Harry bent down to try and retrieve his chosen weapon. Cursing again, he found himself unable to move as he tried to rise and escape while the man's back was turned.

It was then that he noticed that the Slytherin's magic had snuck up on him once again. It wrapped tightly around him in an almost suffocating embrace and kept him from standing, bearing such a heavy weight down upon him that it forced his weaker body further down until he was sitting flat on the floor. A perfect spot to watch the following proceedings a distant part of his mind darkly pointed out.

Struggling against its hold, Harry watched with frightened green-eyes as Voldemort withdrew two black feathers from an ancient, jeweled case and then a metal brazier from the depths of the satchel. Various herbs, colorful woods, and something resembling bone, all of which the teen could not identify were put into the cask before seven drops of the man's blood were carefully added from a fresh cut on the Dark Lord's palm.

Horrible, dark tales of blood magic and sacrifices danced in Harry's mind as he screwed his eyes shut and renewed his bid for freedom. He grew frantic at the thought that it was the ritual in the graveyard all over again. Him unable to move, tied to a cold stone and used as an unwilling provider of a needed ingredient, forced to helplessly watch as the man committed another atrocity against nature.

Yet his body swiftly grew tired, his energy sapped from him as Voldemort's magic tightened around him and the ambient magic of the cathedral spiked as the ritualist began to chant.

Deciding to bide his time after several minutes spent uselessly fighting against his invisible binds, Harry finally gave into his body's demand for rest as the haunting timber of the Dark Lord's voice washed over him. What was important now was to gather his strength and wait for a more opportune moment to escape while gathering what information he could on the ritual. Maybe if he did, and he managed to miraculously escape once more, he could beg for Dumbledore's and his friend's forgiveness for his doubts towards their intentions with the intel he gathered.

Harry quickly grew cold as a dark anger replaced his curiosity, fueled by strong sense of betrayal as once again his too-trusting nature was taken advantage of. How could he have actually believed in the Dark Lord's intention for a truce, even for a second? Obliviously it had all been a lie to lower his defenses and somehow lure him here.

Played like the true naïve little fool so many believed him to be; he fell directly into the man's expectant hands yet again. He vowed then and there to somehow get away from this alive, take his revenge against Voldemort, and never trust anyone ever again. It only came back and bite him in the arse, time and time again.

Eye's spitting with fury, the teenage wizard leveled a glare at the man in front of him, mentally cursing everything about him as the man's chant came to an end.

"To actually believe a Slytherin was capable of keeping their word, ever the fool I guess. Now that you have me here, what do you indeed to do… kill me?" A bitter, breathy laugh slipped from his chapped lips as the dark-haired man ignored him once more, placing the now-smoking brazier on the ground before the glowing circle.

"Yes, because that has worked so well for you in the past, hasn't it Tom. All what, three or four times now!" With his spiteful sense of bravado, the trapped teen could not help but taunt the dangerous man, and only just then did Harry really question whether he had any self-preservation or not. But the thought of begging Voldemort for even a scrap of mercy or reminding the man of his hollow words of peace burned at his wounded pride. So he fought back the only way he could-with his words.

But yet again his words went unheeded as impossible amounts of scented smoke continued to billow from the small, metal bowl, outlining invisible, scrolling symbols and designs all around the circle as it floated up into the air. The building grew eerily silent as the Dark Lord returned to his satchel and retrieved another case, placing it carefully on the floor and brushing a large hand over its surface absently.

Its edges were somewhat worn, indicating an old age, but the polished, dark wood of its sides was much cared for, giving the sense that whatever lay inside was highly prized. A single piece of black wood, about as thick as a broom-handle and not even a foot long was roused up from its protective case. Harry could just about glimpse small charms and little strings dangling from its structure as Voldemort approached the smallest stones of the circle.

With one reverent glance - the strangest emotion Harry had ever seen reflected in the man's eyes - and a soft caress of long fingers down its length, the stumpy branch of wood began to grow rapidly. Accompanied by another heady rush in the surrounding magic, the small shaft of wood stretched into a pole of almost six and a half feet. The rod split into two about a quarter away from its top, twisted in a helix pattern around a ruby gem infixed in its middle before straightening out into two sharp prongs like a pitchfork. It was umber in color and adorned with small, stone beads of different shapes and what Harry thought might be runes etched in sliver.

The thought struck Harry unexpectedly as the Dark Lord took the length of wood in both hands and began to chant once more. A staff, a real bloody staff. Of course the man that lived for the dramatics more than even Severus Snape would have a staff, the teen thought sardonically. He never could do anything the normal way, could he.

And yet Harry found himself filled with childish fascination and wonder at the mythical object. Harry had only heard of wizards of old such as Merlin and Morgan performing magic with anything but wands, yet here was Voldemort, staff in hand. And it was blatantly of great importance to him. That much was evident in how the man handled the instrument with such great care.

However, Harry was torn from his thoughts as an unexplainable feeling of being watched crawled over him yet the most reasonable suspect was far too busy to pay him any mind. The man's chant was shorter this time around but the words he spoke weaved in and out of hearing range while others rang throughout the cathedral's immense ceiling like the mighty clanging of bells. Suddenly, the two black feathers were cast into the now-burning brazier, throwing the building into darkness as if the sun had been blotted out.

Harry's sense of dreadful anticipation spiked as within the center of the circle, the stone that resembled no other started to grow. Foot by foot it jerked and slowly grew higher and higher towards the towering ceiling, groaning tremendously in its development. It was not until branch-like structures started splitting off its smooth, white trunk that Harry realized that it was a tree. The stone that had been innocently lying within the rubble had not really been a stone at all, but a tree-stump masquerading as rock all along.

Anger pushed to the side and his sense of curiosity at an all time high, Harry continued to watch as the empty boughs of the tree started to become populated by fog-like shadows and as the thick mist condensed beneath the tree in true horror movie fashion.

The shock of cold wood against his skin had Harry jumping, abruptly free from his bounds and staring up at the face of his enemy with wide, emerald-eyes. Voldemort stood before him, having moved towards him while he was distracted. The touch beneath his chin had been the butt of the man's staff and Harry slowly rubbed at the tingling skin as he thoughtlessly took a closer look at the Dark Lord. The tattoos decorating the elder's back also covered his front but not with the same design or intensity. Patterned over his muscled chest were a few interconnecting circles, lines, and scattered symbols, leaving much of his flesh free and unpainted.

"Kill you, hardly." The teen was momentarily lost as to the meaning of the drawled statement as his mind was too caught up on the strange realization that the man was barefooted. Darks brows furrowing in confusion, he then remembered his galling taunts from earlier and the anger and betrayal that had accompanied them. Tipping his heated gaze up to meet Voldemort's eyes defiantly and fighting against his second blush of the day coloring his cheeks, Harry opened his mouth to retaliate but was promptly cut off as the man walked a few feet away and looked up into the tree's moving branches. "Watch Potter and say nothing."

"What?" Was about the only question Harry could voice sharply before following the man's gaze as the shadows jostling about the tree began to solidify. The sound of a death rattle covered his flesh in chills as the figure of a corpse, far in the back and just barely recognizable due to the mist, hanging by its neck and suspended from one of the tree's lowest branch, took shape. Hundreds of beady eyes then drew his attention. Silvery-blue in color, almost milky like that of the blind, they blinked in and out as the quick figures fluttered about the branches.

Birds, ravens most likely. Hundreds of black ravens swarming about the timber. With their loud caws and the fighting amongst one another for the best perches, the leafless canopy seemed to be a living entity due to their presences. The cacophony the avians were producing grew still as two larger shadows - possessing no tangible form Harry could see - silently glided down from above, rippling across the floor and pews, and up into the pale branches as they landed without so much as a stir of the air.

"You asked for the truth, from his lips or an act of magic itself," the man answered, turning and staring decisively into Harry's eyes. "Consider this a demonstration of my sincerity."

"_Stígandr …" _

"_Wiedergänger…" _

"_Revenir…" _

"_Taa'ih..." _

"_Draugr…"_

"_One who would call himself a Lord… _You_ dare to summon _us_ here!"_

Back and forth the hissing voices in his mind went. One a higher pitch than the other as two larger ravens broke through the inky shadows, golden eyes glowing malevolently as they stared down their sharp beaks upon Voldemort's unphased figure.

"_Pitiful, lost creature… Broken… Soulless thing, cursed to forever wander Midgard long after __all else is gone… _

"_Has it been worth the price human… This long sought immortality of yours… Is it as sweet as you once hoped… Do you enjoy the taste of ash on your tongue as you eat… Or the flavor of rot as you drink?" _One of the voices finished in a mockingly sweet tone as Harry watched as a solitary large bird inched ever farther down the branches. Slowly approaching Voldemort until it was mere feet before his face as it continued to mentally speak to what Harry hoped, was the both of them.

"_Tells us Wanderer, was it worth the price you paid to Her… Your venerable Dark Lady… Does she bless you still?... Tell us...TELL US, WAS IT WORTH IT?!"_

The atmosphere trembled with the clattering of beaks and the caws of hundreds of voices screaming the same repeated question. Black feathers drifted to the ground like macabre snow as Voldemort stared up at the birds, an arrogant smirk tilting his lips.

"Yes." Was his simple answer, and the birds cawed louder in frustration, stirring themselves into a frenzy of movement and flight over the response. They cursed the Dark Lord's audacity, their once English speaking voices slipping into hundreds of different tongues as they raged, yet Voldemort's smirk only grew broader.

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**AN**: Review Please.

**Recommended Reading:**

It's that time of the year again. The time of finals, expectations, the nauseating loop of holiday music, and… *shudder* having to interact with family. So, because I'm sure you have been good little boys and girls while Aunty Sparrow was away, and you might need a little pick-me-up to get through the season, I give onto you the Greek Epic of all Harry Potter, Slash fiction: Lightning on the Wave.

Normally I would not have rec'ed this fic figuring most of you have already read it but when I went to talk to my Beta about it a few months back, she had no idea what I was talking about. So naturally I had to remedy this error.

Lightning on the Wave is actually the author who wrote the stories. The stories themselves are called the Sacrifice Series. I cannot stress enough how long, detailed, and truly epic this story is. The author does an amazing job of bringing her(his?) world to life with intriguing ideas, new magics, and giving life to many of Rowling's characters that fell by the wayside in the books. For just a quickie, Harry has a twin who is believed to be the BWL and he is brought up to be his brother's protector while balancing becoming a third party in the war and communing with both Dark and Light magic. There are manipulating Lilies, clueless James, besotted Dracos (it's a Draco/Harry fic) and father-figure Severuses. But there is sooooo much more to this story as those of you have read it can attest too. If you are in the mood for a lengthy, slow-moving, action-packed adventure, look this one up. Downsides are that it might be a little too long.


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